IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


.•  Ill 


m 


M 

1.8 


1.25      1.4 

1.6 

^ 

6"     

► 

V} 


<^ 


/}. 


'^. 


o 


/a 


7 


/A 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographlques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  methods  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquis  ci-dessous. 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 


D 


Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagde 


□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 


□    Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur6e  et/ou  pelliculde 


□    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pelliculdes 


□    Cover  title  missing/ 
Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


Q 


Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  ddcolor^es,  tachetdes  ou  piqu6es 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tachdes 


□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


□    Showthrough/ 
Transparence 


□    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


□    Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Qualit^  indgale  de  I'lmpression 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


□    Includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 


D 


D 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  int6rieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  ;.''<ine  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais   lorsque  cela  6tait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  film^es. 


I — I    Only  edition  available/ 


El 


Seule  Edition  disponible 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  dt6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  fa^on  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


D 


Additlona!  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires: 


/ 


10X 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 

14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


/ 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Saint  John  Regional  Library 


L'exemplaire  filmd  fut  reproduit  grAce  d  la 
g6n6ro8it6  de: 

Saint  John  Regional  Library 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetd  de  l'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  eliding  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustreced  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^^>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED ").  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim6e  sont  film6s  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  uomporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
crigfnaux  sont  filmds  en  commenpant  par  la 
preinidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  -^^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmds  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film6  A  partir 
de  i'angle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

li'fi 


.  f. . 


3. 
4. 
5. 
6, 


23. 
i'l. 
'io. 

2G. 

27. 

28.  ' 

2!>. 

•■{0. 

31. 

32. 

33. 

3i. 

3.S. 

30. 

37. 

38. 

39. 

40. 

41.  ■ 

42, 

43. 

44, 

4.->. 

4(;. 

47. 
48, 
4!*. 
flO. 
M. 
52. 


-}  f:i 


Novels  are  sweets.  All  people  with  healthy  literary  appetites  love  them-  almost  all  women ;  a  vast  nnmbcr 
of  clever,  bord-bcadcd  men.  Judgus,  bishops,  chaucellurs,  matheiuaticians,  are  notorious  novvl  readers,  as 
well  as  youug  boys  iiud  sweet  girls,  and  their  kind,  tender  mothers.— W.  M.  Tuaukku^y,  in  Huut  dabvW  I'ufer*. 


PI^EPER'S    LIBRARY 


OF 


SELECT    ISTOVELS. 


Harper's  Select  Library  of  Fiction  rarely  Includes  a  work  which  has  not  a  decided  charm,  either  from  tho 
clearneMs  of  the  Htory,  the  siguilicancc  o(  tliu  themo,  or  the  chariii  of  the  execution ;  so  that  on  sotting  out 
upon  a  journey,  or  providing  for  the  recreation  of  u  solitary  evening,  one  is  wise  and  sate  in  procuring  the 
later  numbers  of  this  attractive  series.— £u<i(un  Trantcript. 


1. 

2_ 

3". 

4. 

5. 

6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
i:J. 
14. 
15. 

IG. 
17. 
18. 
It). 
20. 
21. 
22. 

23. 
21. 
25. 

2G. 
27. 
28. 
2i>. 
:iO. 
31. 
32. 
33. 
34. 

3G. 
37. 
38. 
3!>. 
40. 
41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 
45. 
4G. 
47. 
48. 
4".>. 
.lO. 

r>i. 

62. 


PUIOB 

Pelham.     By  Buhver t  7.) 

The  Disowned.     By  Jiulwer 7.'> 

Devereiix.     By  Buhver 'lO 

Piiul  Clitlord.     ByBnhver M) 

Eugene  Aram.     By  Biilwer .')() 

The  Liist  Days  of  Pompeii.    Bv  Buhver  t>i) 

Tiie  Czarina.     By  Mrs.  Hofland .'iO 

Hieiizi.     By  Buhver lii 

Self-Devotion.     liy  Miss  Campbell 5(> 

The  Nabob  at  Home SO 

Ernest  Alaltravers.     By  Buhver 'id 

Alice ;  or,  The  Mysteries.     I5y  Huhver  .^O 

TiiC  Last  of  the  Barons.     By  Buhver. .  1  00 

Forest  Days.     By  James TiO 

Adam  Brown,  the  Merchant.     By  H. 

.Smith ". i'O 

Pilgrims  of  tlie  lihine.     By  Buhver. ...  2.") 

The  Home.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

The  Lost  Ship.     By  ('ai)tain  Neale 7.") 

The  False  Heir.     By  James 50 

The  Neighbors.     By  .Miss  Bremer 50 

Nina.     By  Miss  Bremer 50 

The  President's  Daugliters.     By  Miss 

Bremer 2.-i 

The  Banker's  Wife.     Bv  .Mrs.  Gore....  .W 

The  Birthright.    By  Mrs.  Gore 2.j 

New  Sketches  of  Every-day  Life.     By 

Miss  Bremer 50 

Arabella  Stuart.     By  James .50 

The  Grumbler.    By  Miss  Pickering. ...  50 

The  Unloved  One.     Bv  Mrs.  Holland.  .50 

Jack  of  the  Mill.    By  William  Howitt.  25 

The  Heretic.     By  Lnjetchnikott' 50 

The  Jew.     By  Spindler 7."« 

Arthur.    BvSue 75 

Chatsworth".    By  Ward .W 

Tlie  Prairie  Bird.     By  C.  A.  Murray.  1  00 

Amy  Herliert.     By  Miss  Sewell 50 

Hose  d'Albret.     By  Jame'* 50 

The  Triumphs  of  Time.   By  Mrs.  Marsh  75 

The  H Family.     By  .Miss  Bremer  50 

The  Grnndfatiier.     Uy  Miss  Pickering.  50 

Arrah  Neil.     By  Jamds 50 

The  Jilt 50 

Tales  from  the  German 50 

Arthur  Arundel.     By  H.  Smith 5<t 

Agincourt.     By  James .50 

'I'iie  Kegent's  Ihiughter CO 

The  Maid  of  H(mor 50 

Satia.     By  De  Bcauvoir 50 

Look  to  the  End.     By  Mrs.  Ellis 50 

Tho  Iinprovisatore.    lly  Andersen 60 

The  tiambler's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Grey..  50 

■Veronica.     By  Zscliokko .50 

Zoe.    By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 


raioR 

.5.3.  Wyoming $  50 

.54.  De  Kohan.    Bv  Sue .50 

55.   Self.    By  the  Author  of  "  Cecil  " 75 

5(!.  The  Smuggler.     By  James 75 

57.  The  Breach  of  Promise ,'",0 

58.  Parsonage  of  Mora.    By  Miss  Bremer  25 
5!l.  A  Chance  Medley.    By  T.  C.  Grattun  .50 

GO.  The  White  Slave 1  00 

Gl.  The  Bosom  Friend.     By  Mrs.  Grey..  50 

G2.   Amiiury.     By  Dunuis 50 

((3.  The   Author's   D-inghter.      By  Mary 

Howitt '. 25 

C4.  Onlv  a  Fiddler !  &c.     By  Anderfeii....  50 

G5.  The  Whiteboy.     By  Mrs.  Hall ."lO 

GG.  The  Foster-Brother.    Edited  bv  Leigh 

Hunt .' 50 

r>7.  Love  and  Mesmerism.     By  11.  Smith.  75 

G8.  Ascanio.     Bv  Dumas 75 

GO.  Lady    of    riilan.       Edited    by  Mrs. 

Thomson 75 

70.  The  Citizen  of  Prague 1  00 

71.  The  Uoyal  Favorite.     By  Mrs.  Gore.  50 

72.  The  Queen  of  Denmark.  By  Mrs.  Gore  50 

73.  The  Elves,  &c.     By  Tieck 60 

74,75.  The  Step-Mother.     By  James I  25 

70.  Jessie's  Flirtations 50 

77.  Chevalier  d'llarmental.     By  Dumas.  50 

78.  I'eers  and  Parvenus.     By  Mrs.  Gore.  50 
70.  The  Commander  of  Malta.     By  Sue..  50 

80.  The  Female  Minister '. 50 

81.  Emilia  Wyiidliam.     By  Mrs.  Marsh.  75 

82.  The  Bush-Ranger.     By  Charles  Bow- 

croft 50 

83.  Tlie  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 25 

81.  Genevieve.     By  Lumartine 25 

85.   Livoniun  Tales 25 

8G.  Lettice  Arnold.     By  .Mrs.  Marsh 25 

87.  Father  Darcy.     By  Mrs.  .Marsh 75 

8.><.   Leontiiio.     Bv  Mrs.  Maberlv 50 

80.   Heidelberg.     By  James ." 50 

00.   Lucreiia.     By  Buhver 75 

91.   Bcauchamp.     Bv  James 75 

».',  04.  Fiirtescuo.    By  Knowles 100 

03.  Daniel  l)ennison,&c.  By  Mrs.  llotiund  50 

95.  Cinq-Mars.     Bv  De  Vigny 50 

9G.   Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall  75 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehrcnstein.     By  .James  50 

9S.  Marriage.     Bv  Miss  S.  Fcrrier 50 

99.   Boland  Cashel.      By  Lever 125 

100.  Martins  of  Cro' Martin.     Bv  Lever.. .1  25 

101.  Uu.ssell.     Bv  James .'. .50 

102.  A  Simple  Story.     By  .Mrs.  Inchbnid..  50 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.     By  Mrs.  Marsh...  5') 

104.  Alamance .' 50 

105.  Margaret  Graham.     By  James 25 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  No-vels. 


100.  The  Wayside  Cross.     By  E.  II.  Mil- 

niiin ! $25 

107.  The  Convict.     Hy  James 50 

108.  MiiisiiinmerKve."   Hv  Mrs.  S.  ('.  Hull  T.O 

KM).  Jane  Kyie.     Hy  Currer  Hell 75 

110.  The  Last  of  tlie  !•  allies.     Hy  James..  :i5 

HI.  Sir  Theodore  Hroiijiliton.     Hy  James  50 

112.  Sell-Control.     Hv  Murv  Hrunton 75 

113,  114.   Harold.     Hy  Hulwer 1  00 

115.  Hrotliers  and  Sisters.  By  Miss  Hremer  .1(1 

110.  (jiowri"      Hy  James 50 

117.  A  Wlntn  an-'  '      C'onse(iuunces.     Hy 

James 50 

118.  Three   Sisters   and  Tliree  Fortunes. 

BvG.  II.  Lewes 75 

110.  The  Discipline  of  Life .50 

rJO.  Thirty  Years  Since.     HyJiimesi 75 

121.  Mary  Barton.     Hy  Mrs.  Gaskcll 50 

122.  The  (ireat  lloggarty  Diamond.     Hy 

Thackeray 25 

1 23.  The  Forgery.     By  James CO 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.    By  Miss  Hremer  25 
125,120.  ThoCaxtons.     Hv  Hnlwer 75 

127.  Mordaunt  Hall.     Bv  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 50 

129.  The  Woodman.     Hy  James 75 

IW.  The  Green  Hand.     A  "  Short  Yarn  "  75 

131.  Sidonia  th<?  Sorceress.    Bv  Meinhold  I  00 

132.  Shirley.     B>  Currer  Hell.". 1  00 

133.  Thedgilvies 50 

134.  Constance  Lyndsay.     HyG.  C.  H .10 

136.  Sir  Edward  Graham.     Hy  Miss  Sin- 
clair  1  00 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.     Hy  Miss  Wilkin- 

son    50 

137.  The  Wilmingtons.     Hv  Mrs.  Marsh..  50 

138.  Ned  Allen.     Hy  1).  Iliinnny .lO 

13!).  Night  and  Moniing.     Hy  Bulwer 75 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 75 

141.  Antonina.    Hy  Wilkie  Collins 60 

142.  Zanoni.     By  Bulwer 50 

143.  Keginald  Hastings.     Hy  AVarburton..  50 

144.  Pride  and  Irresolution 50 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.     Hy  James 50 

146.  Julia  Howard.    Hy  Mrs.  Martin  Hell.  50 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.     Kdited  by  Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

148.  Petticoat  Government.    HyMrs.  Trol- 

lope 50 

149.  The  Luttrells.     By  F.  Williams 50 

1.50.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  U.  N.  By  Hannay  50 

151.  Olive.    Bv  the  Author  of  "The  Ogil 

vies"  ...'. 50 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.     By  James 50 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.     By  Mrs.  Mar.sh.  50 

154.  The  (Commissioner.     Hy. James 1  00 

1 .55.  The  Wife's  Sister.     Bv  Mrs.  Hubback  50 

1.56.  The  Gold  Worshipers! 50 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night.     Hy  Fullom.  50 

158.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.     By  'Ion.  Caro- 

line Norton 50 

159.  Arthur  Conway.     By  Captain  K.  II. 

Milman 50 

160.  The  Fate.     By  James 50 

161.  The  Lady  and  the  Priest.     Bv  Mrs. 

Maberly ' 50 

162.  Aims  and  Obstacles.     By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor's  Ward 50 

1  Ii4.  Florence  Sackville.    By  Mrs.  Burbury  75 

165.  HavensclifJ'e.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

166.  Maurice  Tiernay.     By  Lever 1  00 


pnioK 
167.  The  Head  of  the  Family,     By  Ml.ss 

Mulock .'. $  75 

108.  Darien.     By  Warburtun 50 

16!).  Falkenliurg 1', 

170.  The  Daltons.     By  Lever 1  50 

171.  Ivar;  or,  The  Skjuts  -  Boy.     By  Miss 

Carlen 50 

172.  Pe(iuinillo.     By  James 50 

173.  Anna  Hammer.     Hy  Temmo 50 

174.  A  Life  of  Virissifudes.     Hy  James...  50 

175.  Henry  Fsniond.     By  Thackerav 50 

176.  177.  My  Novel.     By  Bulwer...' 1  50 

178.   Katie  Stewart 25 

17!).  Castle  Avon.     Hy  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

180.  Agnes  Sorel.     By  James 50 

181.  Agatha's  Hnsbanil.    By  the  Author  of 

"Olive" CO 

182.  Villettc.     By  Currer  Bell 75 

183.  Lr-fji's  Stratagem.     By  Miss  Carlen.  50 

184.  Cldi.ied    Hap])iness.      By  C-ountess 

DOrsay 50 

185.  Charles  Auchcster.    A  Memorial 75 

186.  Lady  Lee's  Widowhood .50 

187.  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever... .1  25 

188.  ^ir  Jasper  Carew.     Hy  Lever 75 

189.  Quiet  Heart 25 

190.  Aubrey.     Hy  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

1!)L  Ticonderoga.     Hv  James 50 

192.  Hard  Times,     hy  Dickens 50 

193.  The  Young  Husband.     Hy  Mrs.  Grey  CO 

194.  The  Mother's  Hecompense.    Hy  Grace 

Aguilar " 75 

195.  Avillion,  &c.     By  Miss  Mulock 1  25 

196.  North  and  South.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell.  50 

197.  Coinitry  Neighborhood.    BviSlissDu- 

puy '.  60 

198.  Constance  Herbert.     By  Miss  Jews- 

bury  50 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Ilaughton.     By  ]Mrs. 

Marsh 50 

200.  The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 60 

201.  John    Halifa.\.      By  the   Author  of 

"Olive,"  &c 7f> 

202.  Evelyn  Marston.     By  Mrs.  Marsh....  50 

203.  Fortunes  of  Gleucore.     Hy  Lever .50 

201.  Leonora  d'Orco.     By  James 50 

20.5.   Nothing  New.     By  Miss  Mulock  50 

20(5.  The  Hose  of  Ashurst.    By  iMrs.  Marsh  .50 

207.  The  Atbelings.     By  Mr.s".  Olijjhant....  75 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 75 

209.  My  Ladv  Ludlow.     Hy  Mrs.  Gaskell.  25 

210.  21 1.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.     Hv  Lever...  .50 

212.  A  Life  for  a  Life.      Hy  Miss' Mulock..  .50 

213.  Sword  and  Gown.     By  (ieo.  Lawrence  25 

214.  Misrepresentation.       By    Anna    II. 

Drury 1  00 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.     By  George 

Kliot 75 

216.  One  of  Them.     Bv  Lever 75 

217.  A  Day's  Hide.     By  Lever 50 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.     By  Wills 50 

21!).  A  Strange  Story....'. 1  00 

220.  Brown,  Jones,   and    Hobinson.       By 

Trollops 60 

221.  Abel  Drake's  Wife.     Hy  John  Saun- 

ders   , 75 

222.  Olive  Hlakcs  Good  Work.     By  J.  C. 

Jcalfreson 75 

223.  The  I'rofessor's  Lndy 25 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.      Hv  Miss  Mulock  50 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.     Hy  M.'K.  Braddon..  76 


.J... 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


PBIOR 

220.  Barrington.     B_v  Lever $  "."• 

'I'll.  Sylvian  Ldvers.     IJy  Mis.  Guskell....  7") 

228.   A  I'iist  Fiiendsliip 50 

22l>.  A    Dark   Ni^lit's   Work.      JJv   Mrs. 

Gaskcll .' r.O 

230.  Countcs.s  (jisclla.     By  E.  Murlitt 2.'! 

t\\\.  St.  Olave's 75 

2;53.  A  Point  of  Honor fiO 

23;).   Live  it  Down.     By  Jc.\frre.son 1  00 

2;1L   Martin  I'ole.     By  Saumleis fiO 

2.'{.'i.  Mary  Lynilsny.     By  Lady  l'onsonl>y.  W 

23(5.   Kieanor'sN'ictory.    By  .^L  K.  Braiidon  7."> 

2;J7.   Kachcl  liay.     By  Tn)ll()|io W) 

238.  John  Marcliinoiit's  Legacy.      By  AL 

K.  Braddon 75 

239.  Annie    Waileigli's     I'ortunes.      By 

Ilolmo  TiCe 75 

240.  The  Wife's  Kvidence.     Hy  Wills 50 

21L  Bnihara's   History.      By  Amelia   B. 

Edwards 75 

242.  Cousin  I'hillis 25 

243.  What  Will  He  Do  With  It?     By  Bul- 

wer 1  50 

244.  The  Ladder  of  Life.     By  Amelia  B. 

Edwards 50 

245.  Denis  Duval.     By  Thackeray 50 

24<>.  Maurice  Dering.     By  (ieo.  l^awrenco  50 

247.  Margaret  Denzil's  History 75 

248.  Quite  Alone.      By  Ucorgo  Augustus 

Sala 75 

249.  Mattie:   a  Stray 75 

250.  My  Brotlicr's  Wife.     By  Amelia  B. 

l'!dwards 50 

251.  Uncle  Silas.     BvJ.  S.  LeFanu 75 

252.  Lovel  the  Widower.     By  Tiiackeniy..  25 

253.  Miss  Mackenzie.     By  Anthony  Trol- 

lope 50 

254.  Dn  (iiiurd.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

255.  Theo  Leigh.     By  Annie 'I'homas 50 

25fi.  Denis  Doone.     By  .\nnie  Thomas. ...  50 

257.  Belial 50 

258.  Carry's  Confession 75 

259.  Miss'  Carew.       By  Amelia   B.    Ed- 

wards   50 

2G0.  Hand  and  (ilovc.  By  Amelia  B.  Ed- 
wards    50 

2(n.  Guv  Di'veiell.  Bv  J.  S.  Le  Fanu  ....  50 
2«2.  Half  a  Million  of  .\loney.     By  Amelia 

B.  Edwards 75 

2G3.  The    Belton    Estate.       By   Anthony 

Trollope .'.  50 

261.  Agnes.     By  Mrs.  (>li|)hant 75 

2(i">.  Waller  (ioring.  By  Annie  Thomas..  7."> 
200.  Maxwell  Drewitt.   "  By  Mrs.   J.    \\. 

Uiddeli 75 

2(>7.  Tlie  Toilers  of  the  •ea.  By  Victor  lingo  75 
268.  Miss   Marjoriliunks.     By  Mrs.  Olip- 

hant 50 

209.  True  History  of  a  Little  KagninuHin. 

By  James  (ireenwood 50 

270.  Gilficrt  Kngge.    By  the  Author  of  "A 

First  Friendship" 1  00 

271.  Sans  Merci.     Bv  (ieo.  Lawrence 50 

272.  riiemie  Keller.   By  ."^''■'«-  •'•  "•  Hi'hlell  50 

273.  Land  at  Last.     By  F'.dmund  Yates. ...  50 

274.  Felix  Holt,  the  Uadical.     By  (ieorge 

Eliot 75 

275.  Bound  to  the  Wheel.     By  John  Saun- 

ders    7,"i 

276.  All  in  the  Dark.     By  J.  S.  Lc  Fanu.  .50 

277.  Kissing  the  liod.     By  Edmund  Vutcs  75 


niiaa 

278.  The  Bnce  for  Wealth,    By  Mrs.  J.  H. 

Bidden $  75 

279.  Liz/io  Lortoii  of  Greyrigg.     By  Mrs. 

Linton 75 

280.  The  Beaudcrcs,  Father  and  Sou.    By 

C.  Clarke BO 

281.  Sir  Brook  F'osslirooke.     By  Charles 

Lever 50 

282.  Madonna  Marv.     Bv  Mrs.  ()lii>hant  .  50 

283.  Cradock   Nowell.      By  U.  D.  Black- 

more 75 

284.  Benithal.     From  the  German  of  L. 

Muhlhach 50 

285.  Bachel's  .'secret 75 

2SG.  The  Claveiings.     Bv  Anthony  Trol- 

loje '. 50 

287.  The  \'illage  on  the  Clitl'.     By  Miss 

Thackerav 25 

288.  riaved  Out.     Bv  .Annie  Thomas 75 

289.  Bhick  Sheep.     Hy  Kdmund  Yates 50 

290.  Sowing    the    Wind.       By   V..    Lynn 

Linton 50 

201.   Nora  aiul  Archilitdd  Lee 50 

292.  Uavmond's  Heroine 50 

293.  Mr.    Wyuvards   Ward.       By  Holme 

Lee ' 50 

294.  Alec  F'oihes.     By  George  Macdonald  75 

295.  No  Man's  Friend.     By  F.  W.  liobin- 

soii 75 

296.  Called  to  Account.    By  Annie  Thomiis  50 

297.  Caste 60 

298.  The  (^urate's   Discipline,      By  Mrs. 

Liloait 60 

299.  Circe.     By  Bahinglon  White 60 

300.  The  Tenants  of  Maloiy.     By  J.  S.  Lc 

F'anu 50 

301.  Carlyoii's  Year.     By  James  I'ayn 25 

302.  TheWaierdale  Neighbors ". 50 

3(»3.   Mid)ers  Progress 50 

.'{04.  Guild  t^onrt.     By  Geo.  Macdonalil...  50 

30.5.  'The  Brothers' Bet.     By  Miss  Carlen.  25 

306.  riiiying  for  High  Slakes.     By  Annie 

Thomas.      Illustrated 25 

307.  Margaret's  Engagement , 50 

308.  One  of  the  Family.     By  James  I'ayn.  25 
3()9.   Five  Hundreil  I'otinds  Heward.     Viy 

a  P.airisier 50 

310.   Brownlows.     By  .Mrs.  Oliphant 38 

31 L  Chill lotte's    Inheritatice.      Sequel    to 

"HiidsofPrey."     By  Miss  Braddon  50 

312.  Jennie's  Quiet   Life.     Bv  the  Author 

of  ".St.  Ohivcs" '. 50 

313.  Boor  llnni:inity.    By  F.  W.  Robinson  50 

:'>14.   Briike-ipciiie      By  Geo.  Lawrence 50 

315.  A  Lost  Name.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu....  50 

3lt:.   Loveor  .Mairiage/    By  W.  lUack....  50 

317.  Dead -.*>ea  Fruit.     By  Miss  Braddon. 

Illustrated .". 50 

318.  The  Dower  House.    I!y  Annie 'Thomas  50 

319.  '1  he  Biiimleighs  of  Bisho|i'8  F'olly.   By 

Lever 50 

320.  .Mildred.     By  (ieorgiana  M.  (Jraik....  60 

321.  Natme's  Nolileuum.      By  tne  Author 

of  '-BacheTs  Sceiet"..'. 50 

322.  Kathleen.     By  the  Author  of  "  Bay- 

inond's  Heroine' 50 

323.  That  Boy  of  Norcott's.     By  (  harles 

Lever 25 

324.  In  Silk  Attiie.     By  W.  Black fiO 

325.  Hetty.     By  Henry  Kingslcy 25 

326.  False  Colors,     Bv  Annie  Thomas 60 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


PBIOB 

827.  Meta'BFnith.    Bv  the  Author  of  "St. 

Olave's" ' $50 

828.  Found  Dead.     Jly  James  I'ayn f)0 

3:^9.  Wrecked  in  I'ort.     By  Kdniuiid  Yiites  50 
330.  The  Miiiister'a  Wife.     IJy  Mrs.  Oli- 

phant 75 

381.  A  Ite^gar  on  lIoi8cback.     By  Jaines 

I'ayn 3.") 

8."2.  Kilty.     By  M.  Betham  Kdwaids 50 

'A'AW,  Only  HeiHelf.     By  Annie  Thomas....  50 

3:i4.   liirell.     By  John  iSaiindeis 50 

33."».  Under  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde 60 

330.  So  Buns  the  World  Away.'  By  Mrs. 

A.  0.  Steele 60 

3.37.  Baffled.     By  Julia  Goddard 75 

838.  Beneath  the  Wheels 50 

339.  Stern  Neces.-ity.     By  F.  W.  Hobinson  50 

340.  Gvr -indoline's    Harvest.      By   James 

I'ayn 25 

341.  Kilmcny.     Bv  William  Black 50 

342.  John :  A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Oli- 

phant 50 

343.  True  to  Herself.    By  F.  W.  Hobinson  60 
314.  Veronica.     By  the  Author  of  "Ma- 
bel's Progress  " 50 

345.  A  Dangerous  Guest.     By  the  Author 

of  "Gilbert  Kugge" 60 

340.  Estelle  Kussell 76 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.     By  the  Author 

of  " Kaymond's  Heroine" 50 

348.  Which  is  the  Heroine? 50 

349.  The  Vivian  Komance.     By  Mortimer 

Collins 50 

3.50,     In  Duty  Bound.     Illustrated 60 

361.  The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers. 

By  A.  TroUope 75 

352.  From  Thistles  —  Grapes  ?     By  Mrs. 

Eiloart 50 

8.-i3.  A  Siren.     By  T.  A.  Trollope 50 

354.  Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite. 

By  Anthony  Trollope.    Illustrated...  60 

35.5.  Earl's  Dene.     By  It.  K.  Francillon....  50 

350.  Daisy  Nichol.     By  Lady  Hardy f<0 

357.  Bred  in  the  Bone.     By  Jnmes  Payn..  60 

358.  Fenton's  Quest.     By  Miss  Bradilon. 

Illustrated 50 

359.  Monarch  of  Mincing -Lane.     By  W. 

Black.     Illustrated 60 

360.  A  Life's  Assize.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Kid- 

dell 60 

3C1.  Anteros.     By  the  Author  of  "Guy 

Livingstone" 50 

862.  Her  Lord  and  Master.    By  Mrs.  Ross 

Church 50 

363.  Won — Not  Wooed.     Bv  Jnmes  I'ayn  50 

364.  For  Lack  of  Gold.    By'Chas.  Gibbon  50 

365.  Anne  Furncss 75 

366.  A  Daughter  of  Heth.     By  W.  Black.  .50 

367.  Dumton  Abbey.     By  T.  A.  Trollojje.  50 

368.  Joshua  Marvel".     By  B.  L.  Farjeon...  40 

369.  Lovels  of  Arden.    By  M.  E.  Braddon. 

Illustrated 75 

370.  Fair  to  See.     Bv  L.  W.  M.  Lockhart.  76 


rxioB 

371.  Cecil's  Tryst.     By  James  Payn $  .00 

372.  I'atty.     By  Katharine  S.  Macquoid...     50 

373.  Maud  Mohan.     By  Annie  Thomas  ...     25 

374.  Grif.     Bv  B.  L.  Farjeon 40 

375.  A  Bridge  of  Glass.     By  F.  W.  Kobin- 

son 60 

376.  Albert  Lunel.     By  Lord  Biouj;ham..     75 

377.  A    (iood    Investment.       By  William 

Flagg ' 60 

378.  A  Golden  Sorrow.     By  Mrs.  Cashel 

Hoev 60 

379.  (Ki'-va.     By  Mrs.  Olii.linnt 75 

380.  lloi.e  Deferred.     Bv  Eli/,a  V.  Pollard     60 

381.  The  Maid  of  i^ker.  '  By  K.  1).  Blaik- 

more 75 

382.  For  the  King.     By  Charles  Gibbon...     50 

383.  A  Girl's  liomance,  and  Other  Talcs. 

ByF.  W.  Robinson 50 

384.  Dr.'  Wainwright's  Patient.      By  Ed- 

mund Yates 60 

386.  A   Pascion   in   Tatters.      By   Annie 

Thomas 75 

386.  A   \V Oman's  Vengeance.     By  James 

Payn '. 60 

387.  The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton. 

By  William  Black 75 

388.  To  the  Bitter  End.     By  Miss  M.  E. 

Braddon 75 

389.  Kobin  Gray.     Bv  Chniles  Gibbon 60 

390.  Godolphin.     Bv  Bulwer 50 

391.  Leila.     By  Bulwer 50 

392.  Kenelm  Chillingly.     By  Lord  lAtton.     75 

393.  The  Hour  and  the  Man.     By  llarriet 

Martineau 50 

394.  Murphy's  Master.     By  Jnmes  I'ayn...     25 

395.  The  Mew  Magdalen.     By  Wilkie  Col- 

lins      60 

396.  "  'He  Cometh  Not,'  She  Said."    By 

Annie  Thomas 60 

S97.  Innocent.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant.     Illus- 
trated      75 

398.  Too  Soon.     By  Mrs.  Macquoid 60 

399.  Strangers   and    Pilgrims.      By  Miss 

Braddon 75 

400.  A  .Simpleton.     By  Charles  Hpade 50 

401.  The  Two  Widows.   By  Annie  Thomas    50 

402.  Joseph  the  Jew 50 

403.  Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune.     By  F. 

W.  Robinson 50 

404.  A  Princess  of  Thule.     By  W.  Black.     75 

405.  Lottie  Darling.     Bv  J.  C.  Jcatl'reson.     75 

406.  The  Blue  Ribbon.  '  Bv  the  Author  of 

"St.  Olave's" .' 60 

407.  Harry  Heutiicote  of  Gangoil.    By  An- 

thony Trollope  26 

408.  Publicans  and  Sinners.     By  Miss  M. 

¥j.  Braddon 75 

409.  Colonel  Dacre.      Bv  the  Author  of 

"Caste" .' 50 

410.  Through  Fire  and  Water.     By  Fred- 

erick Talbot '. 25 

411.  Lady    Anna.       By    Anthony    Trol- 

lope      60 


J5:^=  Harper  &  Brothers  will  send  their  works  by  mail,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the 

United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


mioB 

..$  :.o 

, , 

f.() 

,, 

an 

., 

40 

n- 

,, 

CO 

., 

7r> 

m 

, , 

60 

ul 

,, 

r.o 

,, 

76 

1(1 

60 

k- 

., 

76 

.. 

60 

s. 

,, 

60 

J- 

.. 

60 

ie 

•• 

76 

es 

,. 

60 

n. 

■  • 

75 

J. 

., 

75 

,. 

60 

,, 

60 

r.o 

1. 

75 

it 

60 

, , 

25 

1- 

,, 

60 

y 

50 

5- 

, 

75 

. 

60 

S 

, 

76 

, 

60 

s 

60 

, 

60 

60 
75 
75 

60 

25 


50 
25 
60 


/ 


Ct 


S I  '^  >  ^"■• 


{       4 


J^        *. 


.^NG  LflfK. 


,^  '^i'  i 


m  *'  :  :l 


MlU.ll, 


^*ff..'  ■■*  ■^ 


Tfj»;.  '■>CT•».^^  <  '*  :..  ■     ,_  «.■<. 


'•  lf.vn'X>kAM,-  ••IJIK  AMERICAN 


*« 


,    IILV^TKATKD  BY  »\    L  ^HKirAt^'D. 


j^t»r-rv.]-.. . 


NEW    YORK: 
JS  A  ^  y  h  «    &    B^R  O  T  H  E  i;  S,    P  U  B  L  I  >^  li  E  U  •^ 


ft; 


^.Vf 


':<i 


i 


ru, ?»=^3^' 

THE  LIVING  Lm#"' 


2V  Noucl. 


By  JAMES  DE  MILLE, 


AUTHOR  op 


'THE  DODGE  CLUB,"   "COKD  AND  CKKKSK,"   "THE  CRYPTOGRAM,"  "THE  AMERICAN 

UARON,"  &c ,  &c. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  IV.  L.  SHEPPARD. 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER     &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
1874. 


\   ■ 


By  Prof.  JAMES  DE  MILLE. 


THE  DODGE  CLUB;  or,  Italy  in  1859.     Illustrated.    8vo,  Paper,  75  cents  ; 
Cloth,  %i  25. 

CORD    AND    CREESE.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  75   cents; 
Cloth,  $1  25. 

THE    CRYPTOGRAM.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     8vo,  Paper,  $1  50 ;  Cloth, 

$2  00. 

THE   AMERICAN  BARON.     A  Novel.     Illustrated.     Svo,  Paper,  $1  00 ; 
Cloth,  $1  50. 

THE  LIVING  LINK.    A  Novel.    Illustrated.    Svo,  Paper,  $1  00;  Cloth,  $1  50. 


Published  nv  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  New  York. 


Sent  by  mail,  fostjgc  fn'faid,  to  any  pari  of  the  United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874,  by 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


CllAl'TKIi   1. 

A   TKKUUILK   SKCUKT. 

On  a  i)l»>a8aiit  oveiiiiig  in  tlio  nioiifli  of 
May,  1S4(I,  a  j^rouj)  of  yoiinji  la<lit'.s  iiii;;Iit 
have  ln'cii  seen  on  tlic  iiorlico  of  riyiii|i- 
ton  Ti'i-nicc,  a  fasliioiialilc  li(iar(liiiK->«'li<><il 
lu-ar  lltTWfiit water.  Tliry  all  moved  alutnt 
with  tlioso  elVusivo.  (lenionst  rat  ions  so  ehar- 
actei'istic  of  yoinifi  <;iils;  lint  on  this  oeea- 
Nion  there  was  a  jieneial  hnsh  ainoii^  tiiem, 
wliieh  evidently  arose  from  some  nnnsnal 
cause.  As  they  walked  n]»  and  down  ai'm 
in  arm,  or  with  arms  entwined,  or  witii 
elasped  hands,  as  yomijjf^irls  will,  they  talked 
ill  low  earnest  tones  over  some  one  enj;ross- 
injj;  snlijert,  or  oecasionally  gathered  in  little 
knots  to  deliate  some  ]ioiiit,  in  whieli,  while 
each  oil.  red  a  dilfereiit  o]iiiiion,  all  were  tip- 
pressed  liy  one  eommon  sadness 

^Vhile  they  were  thus  eii^fajjed  there  arose 
in  the  distaneo  the  sound  of  a  rajiitlly  nal- 
lopin^  horse.  At  oiico  all  the  murmur  of 
eonversatiou  died  out,  Jind  the  eompany 
stood  in  silence  await  in^j  tlie  new -coiner. 
They  did  not  have  to  w;iit  lonj;.  Out  from 
a  jdaee  where  (he  avenue  wound  amidst 
groves  and  thickets  a  y(uiiig  girl  uiouutcd 


on  a  si)irited  hay  came  at  full  .speed  toward 
the  portico.  Arrivinj;  there,  she  stopjied  ali- 
rnptly  ;  then  leaping  lij^litly  down,  she  llnii^ 
tho  reins  over  ilw  liorse's  neck,  wlio  forth- 
with jjalloped  away  to  his  stall. 

Tln^  rider  who  thus  dismounted  was  a 
yoniift  f;irl  of  about  eijihteeu,  and  of  very 
striking;  appearance.  Her  complexion  wan 
dark,  her  hair  Idack,  with  its  rich  volumi- 
nous folds  feathered  in  f^reat  },;lossy  plaits  be- 
hind. Her  eyes  were  of  a  deep  hazel  color, 
radiant,  and  full  of  encrj;etic  life.  In  those 
eyes  there  was  a  certain  earnestness  of  cx- 
]ircssion,  however,  deepening  down  into 
something  that  seemed  like  melancholy, 
which  showed  that  even  in  her  young  lifo 
she  had  experienced  sorrow.  Her  liguiv  was 
slender  ami  graicful,  being  well  «lisidaycd  by 
her  dose-titting riding-habit, while  a  plumed 
hat  completed  her  (Miuipment,  and  served  to 
heighten  the  elVect  of  her  beauty. 

At  her  apjiroach  a  sudden  silene«^  had  fallen 
over  the  company,  and  they  all  stood  motion- 
less, hxdving  at  her  as  she  dismounted. 

"Why,  what  makes  you  all  look  at  mo  so 
strangely  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone  of  surpriso, 
throw  iiig  a  hasty  glaneo  over  them.  "  Has 
any  thing  happened  ?'' 

To  this  i|nest ion  no  answer  was  given,  but 
each  seemed  waiting  for  the  other  to  spi'ak. 
.At  ItMigth  a  little  thing  of  about  twelve 
came  up,  and  t'licircling  tho  iiew-c(Uuor'M 
waist  w  itli  her  arm,  Itxdied  up  with  a  sor- 
rowful ox])ression,  and  whis|iered, 

"Kdith  dearest,  Miss  I'lymptoii  want.s  to 
see  you.'' 

The  silence  and  oniinons  looks  of  tho  oth- 
ers, and  the  whis]iered  words  of  the  little 
girl,  together  with  her  mournful  face,  in- 
creased the  surprise  and  anxiety  of  I-'.dith. 
She  looked  with  a  strange  air  of  apjU'ehen- 
sion  over  the  company. 

'•  What  is  it  .'"  she  asked,  hurriedly. 
"Something  has  hap)ieued.  Do  any  <d' you 
know  ?     What  Is  it  .'" 

She  spoke  breathlessly,  and  her  eyes  onco 
moH'  wandered  with  anxious  imjiiiry  over 
all  of  them.  Ihit  iio  one  spoke,  for,  what- 
ever it  was,  they  I'dt  the  news  to  be  serious 
— something,  in  fact,  which  could  not  well 
be  communicated  by  themselves.  Once  molts 
:  Edith  repeated  her  question, and  tinding  that 


10 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


no  answpr  was  fortli-coining,  her  impatience 
allowed  her  to  wait  no  lonjjer ;  and  ho,  fj[ath- 
eriiifj  nj)  her  l(iii<i;  skirts  in  one  hand  and  hold- 
in;;  her  wlii]*  in  the  other,  she  hnrried  into 
the  house  to  see  Miss  I'lyinjiton. 

Miss  l*lyni|iton's  room  was  on  the  second 
floor,  and  that  lady  herself  was  seated  by 
the  window  as  Kditli  entered.  In  th(!  yonn^ 
girl's  face  fheri^  was  now  a  deeper  anxiety, 
and  seating  herself  ne.ir  f  he  eenlre-tahle,  she 
looked  in(|iiiringly  ;it  .Miss  l'lyni])ton. 

The  latter  regarded  her  for  some  mouu-nts 
in  silence. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  sco  mo,  anutio  dear?" 
said  Edith. 

Aliss  I'lymiiton  sighed. 

"  Yes,"  she  s.iid,  slowly ;  "  but,  my  poor 
darling  Kdie,  I  hardly  know  how  to  say  to 
you  what  I  have  to  siiy.  1 — I — do  you  think 
you  can  bear  to  hear  it,  dear  ?" 

At  this  Edith  loidted  more  disturbed  than 
ever;  and  jdacing  her  elbow  on  the  centre- 
table,  she  leaned  her  cheek  ujion  her  hand, 
and  fixed  her  melancholy  eyes  upon  Miss 
riympton.  Her  heart  throbbed  painfully, 
and  the  hand  against  which  her  head  leaned 
trembled  visibly.  Hut  these  signs  of  agita- 
tion did  not  serve  to  lessen  the  emotion  of 
tin'  other;  on  the  contrary,  she  seemed  mine 
distressed,  and  (piitc!  at  a  loss  how  to  ])roceed. 

"  Edith,"  said  she  at  last,  "  my  child,  you 
know  Iiow  teiulerly  I  love  you.  1  have  al- 
ways tried  to  be  a  mother  to  you,  and  to  save 
yon  from  all  sorrow ;  but  now  my  love  and 
care  are  all  useless,  for  the  sorrow  has  come, 
and  1  do  not  know  any  way  by  which  I  can 
break  bad  news  to  —  to — a  —  a  bereaved 
heart." 

She  spoke  in  a  tremulous  voice  and  with 
fre<iuent  pauses. 

"  Hereaved  !"  exclaimed  Edith,  with  white 
lips.  "Oh, auntie!  Hereaved!  Is  it  that? 
Oh,  tell  me  all.  Don't  keep  me  iu  suspense. 
Let  me  know  the  worst." 

Miss  IMympton  looked  still  more  troubled. 
"  I — I — don't  know  w  hat  to  say,"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"  Yoii  mean  drath  .'"'  cried  Edith,  iu  an  ex- 
cited vi.ice ;  "and  oh!  I  needn't  ask  who. 
There's  only  one — only  one.  I  had  only  one 
— only  one — and  now — he  is — gone!" 

"(Joue,"  repeated  Miss  IMympton, mechan- 
ically, and  she  said  no  more  ;  for  in  the  jires- 
eneeof  Edith's  grief,  and  of  other  facts  which 
had  y(^t  to  be  disclosed — facts  which  would 
reveal  to  this  innocent  girl  something  woise 
than  even  bereavement — words  were  use- 
less, and  she  could  lind  nothing  to  say. 
Her  haml  wandered  through  the  folds  of 
her  dress,  and  at  length  she  drew  forth  a 
black-edged  letter,  at  which  she  gazed  in  an 
abstracteil  way. 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  cried  Edith, hurriedly  and 
eagerly  ;  and  before  Miss  l'lyni)»t(m  could  pre- 
vent her,oreven  imagine  what  she  was  about, 
she  darted  forward  and  snatched  the  letter 


from  her  hand.  Then  she  tore  it  open  and 
read  it  breathlessly.  The  letter  was  very 
short,  and  was  written  in  a  s^.if,  constrained 
hand.     It  was  as  follows: 

"DvLTON  Il.vi.t.,  May  C,  1840. 
"Madami;, — It  is  my  jtainful  duty  to  com- 
municate to  you  the  (h-ath  of  Erederick  Dal- 
ton,  Es(|.,  of  Daltim  Hall,  who  died  at  Hobart 
Town,  Van  Diemen's  Land,  on  the  'id  of  De- 
cember, IKW.  I  beg  that  you  will  impart 
this  intelligence  to  Miss  Dalfon,  for  a  she  is 
now  of  age,  she  may  wish  to  return  to  Dalton 
Hall. 

"I  remain,  madame, 

"  Your  most  obedient  servant, 

"John  Wkjuins. 
"Mi88  P1.VMPT0N,  Pli/mpton  7'errace." 

Of  this  letter  Edith  took  in  the  meaning 
of  the  first  three  lines  only.  Then  it  drojiped 
from  her  trembling  hands,  and  sinking  into 
a  chair,  she  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears. 
Miss  riymjiton  regarded  litr  with  a  face 
full  of  anxiety,  and  for  sonx;  moments  Edith 
wept  without  restraint ;  but  at  length,  when 
the  lirst  outburst  of  grief  was  jiast,  she  pick- 
ed up  th«!  letter  once  more  and  rer  '  it  over 
and  over. 

Deep  as  Edith's  grief  evidently  was,  this 
bereavement  was  not.  alter  all,  so  sore  a  blow 
as  it  might  have  been  nndcr  other  circum- 
stances. Eor  this  father  whom  she  had  lost, 
was  virtually  .-i  stranger.  Losing  her  moth- 
erat  the  age  ol'eiglit.slie  had  lived  eversinec* 
with  Miss  I'lvmpton,  and  during  this  time 
her  father  had  never  seen  her,  nor  even  writ- 
ten to  her.  Once  or  twice  she  had  written 
to  him  a  pretty  childish  letter,  but  he  had 
never  deigned  any  reply.  If  in  that  nn- 
kiuiwn  nature  there  had  been  any  thing 
of  a  father's  love,  no  ))ossible  hint  had  ever 
been  given  of  it.  Of  her  str.'inge  isolation 
she  was  never  forgetful,  and  she  felt  it  mosti 
keenly  during  the  summer  holidays,  when 
all  her  companions  had  g(uie  to  their  homes. 
At  such  tim(>s  she  brooded  nuich  over  her 
loneliiu'ss,  and  out  of  this  feeling  then;  arose 
a  hojt(>,  which  she  never  ceased  to  cherish, 
that  fh<!  time  would  come  when  sli<\  might 
join  he  lather,  anil  live'  with  him  wherever 
he  might  be,  and  set  herself  to  the  task  of 
winning  his  atVcctions. 

Sh(^  had  always  understood  that  her  fa- 
ther had  been  living  in  the  East  since  her 
mother's  death.  The  only  connnunieation 
which  she  had  with  him  was  indirect,  and 
consisted  of  busini'ss  lett<'rs  which  his  En- 
glish agent  wrote  to  Miss  IMympton.  These 
were  never  any  thing  more  than  short,  form- 
al notes.  Such  neglect  was  keenly  felt,  and 
Edith,  unwilling  to  blame  her  fath(>r  alto- 
gether, tried  to  make  somi'  one  else  respon- 
sibhr  for  it.  As  she  knew  of  no  othei'  human 
being  who  had  any  connection  with  her  fa- 
ther exce])t  this  agent,  she  brought  herself 
gradually  to  look  upon  him  as  the  cause  of 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


11 


ittt-n 
liiul 
un- 
tiling 
('\ei' 
it  ion 
most 
when 
(lines, 
her 
iiroso 
■risli, 
nii.u;ht 
•ri'ver 
jk  of 


her  father's  coldness,  and  so  at  length  caino 
to  regard  him  with  a  hatred  that  was  uu- 
reaKfiniiig  and  intense.  She  considered  him 
her  father's  evil  genius,  and  believed  him  to 
he  somehow  at  tlie  bottom  of  the  troubles 
of  her  life.  Thus  every  year  this  nuin,  John 
Wiggins,  grew  more  hateful,  and  she  aeeus- 
tomed  herself  to  think  of  him  as  an  evil 
tiJ'nd,  a  Meidiistopheles,  by  whose  crafty 
wiles  her  father's  l.eart  had  been  estranged 
from  her.  8ueh,  then,  was  the  nature  of 
Editli's  bereavement  ;  and  as  she  mourned 
over  it  she  did  not  mr>nrn  so  much  over  the 
reality  as  over  her  vanishetl  hojie.  He  was 
gone,  and  with  him  was  gone  the  expecta- 
tion of  meeting  him  and  winning  his  atfee- 
tion.  Hlie  would  never  see  him — never  be 
able  to  tell  how  slie  h)ved  him,  and  hear 
him  say  with  a  fatlier'a  voice  that  he  loved 
his  child  ! 

Tiicse  thoughts  and  feelings  overwhelmed 
Edith  even  as  she  held  tli(!  letter  in  her 
hand  for  a  new  jierusal,  and  she  read  it  over 
an<l  over  without  attaching  any  meaning  to 
the  words.  At  Icngtii  her  attention  was  ar- 
resti'd  l)y  one  statement  in  that  short  letter 
which  had  hitherto  cscajicd  her  notice. 
This  was  the  name  of  the  place  wliere  her 
father's  death  had  occurred— Vau  Diemen's 
Land. 

"  I  don't  understand  this,"  said  she. 
"What  is  the  meaning  of  this — Van  Die- 
men's  Land  ?  I  did  not  know  that  poor  papa 
had  (^vcr  left  India."' 

Miss  I'iympton  ma<le  no  rejtly  to  this  for 
some  time,  but  looked  more  troubled  than 
ever. 

"  What  does  it  mean,"  asked  Edith  again 
—  "  this  Ilobart  Town,  Van  Diemen's  Land  ? 
What  docs  it  mean  ?" 

"  Well,  dear,"  said  Miss  Plymptou,  in  a 
strangely  gentle  an<l  mournful  voice,  ''you 
have  never  known  much  about  your  i)oor 
^■"ther,  and  you  have  never  known  exactly 
where  he  has  been  living.  H(^  diil  not  live 
in  India,  dear;  he  never  lived  in  India.  He 
lived  in — in — Van  Diemen's  Land." 

Miss  I'lympton's  tone  and  look  alVected 
Edith  very  unpleasantly.  Tlie  mystery 
about  her  father  seemed  to  grow  darker,  and 
to  assume  sometliingof  an  ill-omened  charac- 
ter. The  nanu'  also— Van  Dienirn"s  Land — 
8erv»?d  to  heighten  her  dark  aiiprclicnsions  ; 
and  tiiis  discovery  that  she  had  known  even 
less  than  she  suitposed  about  her  father 
made  it  seem  as  though  the  knowledge  that 
had  thus  been  hidden  could  not  but  be  pain- 
ful. 

"  What  do  you  mean  f"  she  asked  again  ; 
and  her  voice  died  down  to  a  whisper  through 
till*  vague  fears  that  had  been  awakened. 
"I  tliougiit  tiiat  i)oor  jiajia  lived  in  India — 
that  he  held  some  otlicc  under  government." 
"I  know  that  you  believed  so,"  said  .Miss 
Plymi>ton,  n  ganling  Edith  w  ith  a  look  that 
was  full  of  pity  and  mournful  sympathy. 


"That  was  what  I  gave  out.  None  of  the 
girls  have  ever  suspected  the  truth.  No 
one  knows  whoso  daughter  yon  really  are. 
They  do  not  suspect  that  your  father  was 
Dalton  of  Dalton  Hall.  Tluy  think  that  ho 
was  an  Indian  resident  in  the  Company's 
service.  Yes,  I  liavt«  kept  the  secret  well, 
dear — the  secret  that  I  jtromised  y<>  ••  dear 
mother  on  her  death-bed  to  keep  fr  ni  all 
the  world,  and  from  yon,  darling,  till  the 
tinu!  should  come  for  you  to  know.  And 
often  and  often,  dear,  have  I  thought  of  this 
moment,  and  tried  to  jircjiare  for  it ;  but 
now,  since  it  has  come,  I  am  worse  than  un- 
prepared. Jbit  ]ire[>aralions  are  of  no  n.se, 
for  <di,  my  darling,  my  own  Edith,  I  nmst 
speak,  if  I  speak  at  all,  fiom  my  heart." 

These  words  were  spoken  by  Miss  I'iymp- 
ton in  a  broken,  disconnected,  and  almost 
incoherent  manm'r.  She  sto]i)ied  abruptly, 
an<l  seemed  overconu^  by  strong  agitaticm. 
Edith,  on  her  part,  lo<d<e(l  at  her  in  cijual  ag- 
itation, womlcring  at  her  disjilay  of  emotion, 
anil  terrihed  at  tlit^  dark  signilicance  of  hei' 
words.  For  from  those-  words  she  learned 
this  mtu'Ii  already— that  her  father  ha<l  been 
living  in  Van  Diemen's  Lainl,  a  jicnal  colo- 
ny ;  that  around  him  had  been  a  dark  secret 
which  had  been  kept  from  her  most  care- 
fully; that  her  ])arcntage  had  been  conceal- 
ed most  scrniiulously  from  the  knowledge 
of  her  sciiool-n\atcs;  and  that  this  secret 
which  had  been  so  guarded  was  ev<'n  now 
overwhelming  Miss  I'lyin]iton  so  that  she 
shrunk  from  connnunicating  it.  All  this 
served  to  till  the  mind  of  Edith  with  terrilde 
presentitnents,  and  the  mystery  which  ha<l 
liithcrto  surrounded  her  fathi'r  seemed  now 
aliont  to  result  in  a  revelation  mon;  terrible 
than  the  mystery  itself. 

After  some  tim(>  Miss  I'lyni])ton  rose,  and 
drawing  her  chair  nearer,  sat  down  in  front 
of  Edith,  and  took  both  her  hands. 

"My  jioor  darling  Edith,"  said  she,  in 
jiitying  tones,  "  I  am  anxious  for  you.  Yon 
are  not  strong  enough  fortius.  Your  hands 
are  damp  and  cold.  Yon  are  trembling.  I 
would  not  have  lironglit  np  lliissnlijeet  now, 
but  1  I'.avc  been  thinking  that  the  time  has 
<'onn'  for  telling  you  all.  Ibit  I'm  afraid  it 
will  be  too  nwu'h  for  yon.  You  have  al- 
ready enough  to  bear  without  having  this  iu 
addition.     You  are  too  weak.'' 

Edith  sho(di  her  head. 

'"Can  you  bear  it  .'"  asked  Miss  Plyiniiton, 
anxiously,  "this  that  I  wish  to  tell  you? 
Pcrhajis  I  had  belter  defer  it." 

"No," said  Edith,  in  a  forced  voice.  "No 
— now — now — tell  me  now.  I  can  bear 
whatever  it  is  better  than  any  horrible  sus- 
pense." 

Miss  riym)>ton  sighed,  and  leaning  for- 
ward, slu'  kissed  the  pale  forehead  "d"  the 
young  gill.  Then,  after  a  little  further  de- 
lay, during  which  she  seeined  to  be  collect- 
ing her  thoughts,  she  began  : 


12 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"  I  was  govorncsH  onco,  Eu'.cli  dearest,  in  1  word,  however,  for  her  foelinRS  were  still  too 
your  dear  iiiainiua's  family.  She  was  «iuito  strong,  nor  could  slio  Jin<l  voice  for  any  words, 
a  little  tiling  then.  All  the  rest  were  harsh,  |  She  sat,  therefore,  in  silence,  and  waited  for 
and  treated  me  like  a  slave  ;  l)Ut  she  was  like  ]  Miss  Plympton  to  tell  the  whole  story, 
an  angel,  and  made  mo  feel  the  only  real  1  Miss  i'lympton  surveyed  Etlith  anxiously 
liapitiness  I  kn(!w  in  all  those  <lreary  days.  |  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  riciiig,  went 
I  loved  her  dearly  for  her  gentle  and  nolde  over  to  an  escritoire.  Tiiis  she  unlocked, 
nature.  I  loved  her  always,  and  I  still  love  and  taking  from  it  a  iiarcel,  she  returned  to 
her  memory  ;  and  I  love  you  as  I  loved  her,    her  seat. 

and  for  her  sake.  And  when  she  gave  you  |  "  I  am  not  going  to  tell  yon  the  story," 
to  me,  on  her  death-bed,  I  promised  her  that  said  she.  "I  can  not  bear  *u  recall  it.  It 
I  would  l)e  a  mother  to  you,  dear.  You  have  is  all  here,  and  you  may  read  it  for  yourself, 
never  known  how  much  I  love  you—  for  I .  It  was  all  public  ten  years  ago,  and  in  this 
am  not  demonsirative — but  I  do  love  you,  '  package  are  the  reports  of  the  trial.  I  have 
my  own  Edith,  most  dearly,  and  I  would  read  *liem  over  so  often  that  I  almost  know 
spare  you  this  if  I  could.  15ut,  after  all,  it  them  l)y  hea/t ;  and  I  know,  too,  the  haste  of 
is  a  tiling  which  you  nnist  know  sonu*  time,  that  trial,  and  the  looseness  of  that  evidence, 
and  before  very  long — tbe  sooner  the  biitter."  ^  I  have  marked  it  in  jilaces — for  your  eyes 

"I  wish  to  know  it  now,"  said  Edith,  as  i  only.dearest^for  I  jncpared  it  for  you,  to  bo 
Miss  riymiiton  liesitated,s])(aking  in  a  eon-  handed  to  yon  in  ca.se  of  my  deiilh.  My  life, 
strained  voice,  the  result  of  the  strong  jiress-  however,  has  been  ineservt'd,  and  I  now  give 
nre  wliich  she  was  ]>utting  on  her  feelings  ;  this  into  your  own  hands.  You  must  take 
— "  now,"  she  repc^ated.  "I  can  not  wait,  it  to  your  own  room,  an<l  read  it  all  over 
I  must  know  fill  to-day.     What  was  itf   by  yourself.     You  will  learn  there  all  that; 


Was  it— crime?" 

"  Tlie  charge  that  was  against  him,"  said 


the  W(uld  believes  about  your  father,  and 
will  see  in  his  own  words  what  he  savs  about 


Miss  riympton,  "  involved  crime.  IJut,  my  himself.  And  for  my  jtart,  even  if  the  tes- 
darling,  yon  must  remember  always  that  an  ;  tiniony  were  far  stronger,  I  would  still  take 
accusation  is  not  the  same  as  a  fact,  even  '  the  word  of  Frederick  Dalton  I" 
tiiough  men  belitjve  it;  yes,  even  though  j  Miss  Plynii>ton  held  out  the  ])areel,  and 
the  law  may  condemn  the  accused,  and  the  Edith  took  it,  though  she  was  scarce  con- 
innocent  may  siitfer.  Edith  Dalton,"  she  scions  of  the  act.  An  awful  foreboding  of 
continued,  with  solemn  earnestness,  "I  bo- j  calamity, the  mysterious  shadow  of  her  fa- 
lieve  that  your  father  was  as  innocent  as  thcr's  fate,  descended  over  her  soul.  She 
you  are.  Henieiiiber  that!  ("ling  to  that !  was  nnconscious  of  the  kiss  wliich  Miss 
Never  give  iiji  that  belief,  no  matter  wliat  Plym]>ton  gave  her;  nor  was  she  conscious 
you  may  hear.  Tliere  was  too  much  haste  of  any  thing  till  she  found  herself  seated  at 
.•ind  blind  passion  and  prejudice  in  that  court  a  table  in  her  own  room,  with  the  door 
where  he  was  tried,  and  ajipcarances  were  locked,  and  the  i)ackage  lying  on  the  taldo 
•lark,  and  then'  was  foul  treachery  some-  before  her.  She  let  it  lie  there  for  a  lew 
where;  and  .so  it  was  that  Frederick  Dalton  moments,  for  Iier  agitation  was  excessive, 
was  done  to  ruin  and  his  wife  done  to  death,  and  she  dreaded  to  oi)en  it ;  but  at  length 
And  now,  my  darling,  you  have  to  make  she  mastered  her  feelings,  and  began  to  undo 
yourself   ac<niainted    not    with    a   father's    the  strings. 

crimes,  but  with  a  father's  sufferings.  You  i  Tlie  t'ontents  of  the  piircel  consisted  of 
are  old  enough  now  to  hear  that  story,  and  sheets  of  ]ta])er,  upon  wlii<'h  were  pasted 
you  have  sutlicient  indejiendenee  of  <'harac-  columns  of  printed  matter  cut  from  some 
ter  to  .judg(>  for  yourself,  dear.  There  is  news]>aper.  It  was  the  re])ort  of  the  trial 
no  reason  why  you  slionld  be  overwhelmed  of  Frederick  Dalton,  upon  charges  which  ten 
when  yon  liear  it — unless,  indeed,  you  are  years  before  had  tilled  the  ]iiiblie  mind  with 
overconu!  by  jiity  for  the  innocent  and  in-  horror  and  curiosity.  In  those  days  the 
dignatiou  against  his  judges.  Even  if  soci-  most  cursory  reader  who  took  nj)  the  report 
ety  considers  your  father's  name  a  stained  came  to  the  work  with  a  mind  full  of  vivid 
and  dislionored  one,  there  is  no  reason  why  interest  and  breathless  susjiense;  but  that 
his  daughter  shouhl  feel  shame,  i\>v  you  may  report  now  lay  before  the  eyes  of  a  far  ditl'er- 
tak<'  your  staii<l  on  his  own  declaration  of  ent  readier — one  who  was  animated  by  feel- 
innocence,  and  hold  up  your  head  proudly  ,  iiigs  far  more  intense,  since  it  was  the  daugh- 
before  tl'.e  world."  |  ter  of  the  accused  herself.     That  daughter 

Miss  riympt(Ui  s])oke  this  with  vehement  also  was  one  who  hitherto  had  lived  in  an 
ennition,  and  her  words  brought  some  con- '  atmosphere  of  innocenc«>,  purity,  and  love, 
solatiou  to  Edith.  The  horrilde  thought  one  wlio  shrank  in  abhorrence  from  all  that 
that  had  at  tirst  come  was  that  her  father  was  base  or  vile;  and  this  was  tlu!  one  bi;- 
liad  been  a  convict  in  some  ])eiial  settle- ,  fore  whose  eyes  was  now  ]ilaced  the  horrible 
nM>nt,  but  this  solemn  assurance  of  liis  inno- 1  record  that  had  been  made  up  before  the 
cenee  mitigated  tlie  horror  of  the  thought,  [  world  against  her  father's  name, 
and  changed  it  into  pity.     She  said  not  a  1      The  printed  columns  were  pasted  in  such 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


13 


a  wny  that  a  wido  marpin  was  left,  which 
was  coven'il  with  iiotew  in  MisH  I'lyiiipton'H 
writiiiK-  I"  U've  any  thinp  like  a  (U-taih-d 
acfonnt  of  thi.s  report,  with  the  annotations, 
is  ont  of  tilt'  (pu'stion,  nor  will  any  thinj;  he 
necessary  heyond  a  general  suuiiuary  of  the 
facts  therein  stated. 


CHAPTER  n. 

TIIE   CONTEXTS   OK  TIIK   MANTSCnil'T. 

On  tiie  date  indicated  in  the  rejxtrt,  then, 
tlio  city  of  Liverpool  and  the  whole  conn- 
try  were  ajjitated  hy  the  nc^ws  of  a  terrihhi 
murder.  On  the  rojid-.side  near  Everton 
tlie  dead  hody  of  a  Mr.  Henderson,  an  emi- 
nent hanker,  had  heen  found,  not  far  from 
his  own  residence.  The  discovi^ry  had  heen 
made  at  ahout  eleven  o'clock  in  the  evening 
hy  somo  i>nssers-hy.  Upon  exaniinati(Ui  a 
w<nnid  was  found  in  the  hack  of  the  head 
which  had  heen  caused  liy  a  hullet.  His 
watch  and  purso  were  still  in  their  jtlaces, 
hut  his  ]>ocket-hook  was  gone.  Clasped  in 
one  of  the  hiinds  was  a  newspaper,  on  tht^ 
hlank  margin  of  which  wen;  some  red  let- 
ters, rudely  traced,  and  looking  as  though 
they  had  heen  written  with  hlood.  The  let- 
ters wi!re  these : 

"DALTON  SHOT  ME  BEG—" 

It  was  evident  that  the  writer  intended  to 
write  the  word  "hecause,"  and  give  tlu^ 
reason  why  he  had  heen  shot,  hut  that  his 
strength  had  failed  in  the  middle  of  the 
word. 

A  closer  search  revealed  some  other  i  liings. 
One  was  a  small  stick,  the  point  of  which 
was  reddtMied  with  a  suhstanci',  which  mi- 
croscopic examination  afterward  showtul  to 
he  hlood.  The  other  was  a  scarf-pin  made 
of  gold,  the  head  of  which  consisted  of  a  Mal- 
tose cross,  of  very  rich  and  elegant  design. 
In  the  middle  was  hlack  enamel  inclosed  i)y 
a  richly  chased  gold  horder,  and  iit  the  inter- 
section of  the  hars  was  a  small  diamond  of 
great  splendor.  If  this  cross  helongcd  to 
the  murderer  it  had  douhtless  heeome  loos- 
ened, and  fallen  out  while  he  was  stoojiing 
over  liif  victim,  and  the  lo.s8  had  not  heen 
noticed  in  the  excitement  of  the  occasion. 

At  the  coroner's  in([uest  various  impor- 
tant circumstances  were  hrought  to  light. 
The  fact  that  his  watch  and  purse  remained 
made  it  plain  that  it  was  not  a  case  of  com- 
mon highway  rohhery,  and  the  loss  of  the 
pocket -hook  showed  that  the  deed  was 
lirompted  hy  a  desire  for  scmiething  more 
tiian  ordinary  plunder.  Proceeding  from 
this,  various  circumstances  arose  which,  in 
addition  to  the  terrihle  accusation  traced  in 
hlood,  tended  to  throw  suspicion  upon  Fred- 
erick Dalton. 

It  came  out  that  on  the  morning  of  that 


very  day  Mr.  Henderson  had  discovered  a 
check  for  two  thousand  jiounds  that  had 
heen  forged  in  his  name.  Heing  a  very  chol- 
eric man,  he  felt  more  than  the  anger  which 
is  natural  niuler  such  circumstances,  and 
vowed  vengeance  to  the  uttermost  ujion  tho 
forger.  That  same  morning  Mr.  Frederick 
Dahon  came  to  see*  him,  and  was  shown  into 
his  i>rivate  ofhee.  He  ha»l  just  arrived  in 
the  city,  and  had  come  on  pui  p'.)se  to  ]>ay  this 
visit.  The  interview  wiis  a  i>rotracted  one, 
and  the  clerks  outside  heard  the  voice  of 
Mr.  Henderson  in  a  very  high  key,  and  in  u 
strain  of  what  stninded  like  angry  menace 
and  <lenunciationsofvenge;tiice,  though  they 
could  iu>t  nuike  ont  any  words.  At  last  Ww 
oUiee  door  opened,  and  Dalton  c;im(f  out. 
He  was  very  jiah',  anil  much  agitated.  One 
of  th<!  clerks  heard  him  say,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  Oiilii  oiif  d(Uj — ^7/  Om  time  to-morrow." 
Whereupon  Mr.  Henderson  roared  ont  in  a 
loud  voice,  which  all  the  clerks  heanl, 

"  Xi>,  Sir!     yut  oni'  daij,  not  one  hour,  if  I 
die  for  it!" 

Fpoii  .his  Paltcm  walked  away,  looking 
paler  and  more  agitated  than  ever. 

In  the  courses  of  the  day  Mr.  Henderson 
told  hisconti<lential  clerk  that  theeheck  had 
just  heen  used  hy  Dalton,  who,  however, 
denied  that  he  was  tho  forger;  thiit  the  vis- 
it of  Dalton  professed  to  he  on  hehalf  of  tho 
guilty  party,  whom  lie  wisht'd  to  screen. 
Dalton  had  refused  to  give  the  cnli>rit's 
name,  and  otl'crcd  to  jiay  the  amount  of  the 
check,  or  any  additional  sum  whattner,  if 
no  ]>roceediiigs  were  taken.  This,  however, 
Mr.  Henderson  refused,  and  in  his  indigna- 
i  tion  charged  Dalton  himself  with  the  crime. 
Cnder  these  circumstances  tho  interview 
had  terminated. 
J  Thus  the  evidence  against  Dalton  was  the 
forged  check,  the  "lerks'  reports  concern- 
ing the  exciting  interview  with  Mr.  Hender- 
son, th(^  awful  accusation  of  tlu;  deceased 
himself,  written  in  his  own  hlood,  together 
with  the  Maltese  cross,  which  washelieved  to 
helong  to  Dalton.  The  arrest  of  Dalton  had 
heen  made  at  the  earliest  possihh^  moment ; 
and  at  the  trial  these  were  tiit^  things  which 
were  made  use  of  against  him  hy  the  ]>ros(!- 
cution.  Hy  ein'rgetio  eflbrts  disco\<'rv  was 
made  of  a  jeweler  who  recognized  the  Mal- 
tese cross  as  his  own  work,  iiiid  swore  that 
he  had  made  it  for  Frederick  Dalton,  in  ac- 
cordance with  a  special  design  furnished  him 
hy  that  gentleman.  The  ilesign  had  heen 
kei)t  in  his  order-hook  ever  since,  and  was 
produced  hy  him  in  court.  Thns  the  tes- 
timony of  the  jeweler  and  the  oidcr-hook 
served  to  fix  the  ownership  of  the  Maltese 
cross  upon  Dalton  in  such  a  way  that  it  cor- 
rohorated  and  contirmed  all  tho  other  testi- 
mony. 

On  the  other  hand,  tho  defense  of  Diilton 
took  up  all  these  i)oints.  In  the  lirst  i)laco, 
it  was  shown  that  in  his  case  there  was  uo 


14 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


conceivaWo  tomptiifion  fliat  conld  liave  led 
to  the  coiniiiiNHioii  ofNiicli  ii  criiiu;.  lio  WiUi 
a  man  of  mrcut  wcaltli,  iKiN.scHm'd  of  u  fine 
«'8tfite,  and  fret;  from  all  iM't'iu'iary  omltar- 
raHsments.  llo  was  not  what  \\t\n  ciillfd  a 
Hportin^  man,  and  tliiTcfon;  conld  not  have 
Hecri'tly  accnniuliitfil  di'btH  wliili^  a]i))cann^ 
rich.  It  waM  shown,  also,  that  his  cliarachT 
was  HtainlcsH  ;  that  he  was  essentially  a  ilo- 
niestic  man,  livin<r  (piitttly  at  IJalton  Hall 
with  his  wife  and  child,  and  therefore,  from 
his  woi'ldly  nn'ans  as  well  as  from  his  per- 
sonal character  and  surroundings,  it  was 
morally  impossihlu  for  him  to  huvu  forged 
tlie  cheek. 

With  referenco  to  the  interview  with  Mr. 
Henderson,  it  was  maintaineil  that  it  arose, 
iiH  he  himself  said,  frcm  a  desire  to  shield 
the  real  culprit,  whom  he  knew,  ami  for 
whom  he  felt  a  strong  and  unusual  regard. 
Who  this  culprit  was  the  defense  did  not  as- 
sert, nor  could  they  imagine,  though  they  tried 
every  jxissilile  way  of  finding  him  out.  Who- 
ever lie  was,  he  a]>iteared  to  he  the  only  one 
who  could  have  had  a  motive  strong  enough 
for  the  nnirder  of  Mr.  Henderson.  The  un- 
known assassin  had  evi<lently  done  the  deeil 
soastoohtain  possession  of  the  forged  check, 
iiml  ]irevent  its  heing  used  against  him.  In 
this  he  was  unsuccessful,  since  the  check 
had  a]''"ady  been  intrust<'d  to  tin;  hands  of 
others,  hut  the  aim  of  the  a88a8.sin  was  suf- 
(iciently  evident. 

Again,  as  to  the  writing  in  Idood,  a  vigor- 
cms  etfort  was  made  to  show  that  this  was  a 
con8i)iraey  against  an  insiocent  man.  It  was 
argued  that  Mr.  Ilenclerson  did  not  write  it 
at  all ;  and  efforts  were  made  to  jjrove  that 
the  wound  in  his  hea«l  must  have  caused  in- 
stantaneinis  death.  He  himself,  th(>refore, 
conld  not  have  written  it,  hnt  it  must  have 
been  the  work  either  of  sonu'  one  who  was 
plotting  against  Dalton,  or  who  was  eager 
to  divert  Mnsj)icion  from  himself. 

The  testimony  of  thi;  Maltese  cross  was 
met  by  counter-testimony  to  the  effect  that 
Dalton  had  never  worn  smdi  an  ornament. 
His  servants  all  sw(n'e  that  they  had  never 
seen  it  before.  Mr.  Henderson's  clerks  also 
swore  that  Mr.  Dalton  wore  no  pin  at  all  on 
that  nu)rning  of  the  iutervi(^w. 

And,  finally,  an  effort  was  made  to  prove 
an  aliln.  It  was  shown  that  Daltiui's  occu- 
pation of  his  tinu'  during  that  evening  conld 
be  accounted  for  with  the  exception  of  one 
hour.  Witiu'sses  were  produced  from  the 
hotel  where  he  put  np  who  swore  that  he 
had  been  there  nntil  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  when  ho  left,  returning  at  nine. 
An  hour,  therefore,  remained  to  be  account- 
ed for.  As  to  this  hour — on  tht;  one  hand, 
it  seenu'd  hardly  sutlicient  for  the  deed,  but 
yet  it  Avas  certainly  jiossible  for  him  to  have 
done  it  within  that  time;  and  thus  it  re- 
mained for  the  defense  to  account  for  that 
hour.    For  this  purpose  a  note  was  produced, 


which  was  scribbltMl  in  pencil  ami  addressed 
to  John  Wiggins,  Esq. 
It  was  as  follows  • 

"  I)i;a«  WKioiN.s,— I  have  been  here  ever 
sim-e  eight,  and  am  tired  of  waiting.  Come 
to  my  room  U8  soon  as  yon  get  back.  I'll  bo 
there.  Yours,  F.  Dai/ion." 

Mr.  John  Wiggins  testified  flint  ho  had 
made  an  ai)pointment  to  meet  Dalton  at 
the  Inmr  menti<uied  in  the  note,  but  had 
been  detained  on  business  nntil  late,  lie 
had  found  this  o!i  his  return  thrust  under 
the  ottice  door.  On  going  to  sei!  him  the 
foUowing  mornir^  he  had  learned  of  his 
arrest. 

This  note  and  the  testimony  of  Wiggins 
were  felt  to  bciir  strongly  in  Dalton's  favor. 
If  file  accused  had  really  been  waiting  iit 
the  oflice,  as  the  note  state<l,  then  cle.arly  he 
conld  not  have  followed  on  Mr.  Henderson's 
track  to  Kverton.  'I'lie  force  of  this  weigh- 
ed iiKtn'  than  any  thing  else  with  tin-  court ; 
the  summing  n])  of  the;  Jiidg*;  also  bore 
strongly  toward  an  ac(iuittal;  anil,  coiise- 
(liieiitly,  Dalton  was  declared  not  guilty. 

Hut  the  aeiiuittal  on  this  first  charge  did 
not  at  all  secure  the  escape  of  Dalton  from 
diinger.  Anotlur  charge,  which  had  been 
interwoven    with   the    first,  still    impended 

,  over  him,  !ind  no  sooner  was  he  declared  free 

I  of  ninrder  than  he  was  arresttMl  on  the  charge 
of  forgery,  and  remanded  to  pri.'-on  to  await 
his  trial  <m  that  accusation. 

Now  during  the  whohi  course  of  the  trial 
the  jmblic  mind  had  been  intensely  excited ; 
iill  men  were  eager  that  vengeance  should 
fall  on  some  one.  and  at  the  outset  had  made 
np  their  minds  that  Dalton  was  guilty.  The 
verilict  of  ac<niittal  eieated  deep  and  wide- 
8])rcad  dissatisfact  ion,  for  it  seemed  as  'hough 

■  justice  had  been  cheated  of  a  victim.  When, 
therefore,  the  trial  for  forgery  came  on,  there 
weighed  against  Dalton  all  the  infamy  that 
had  lieen  accumulating  against  him  during 
the  trial  for  murder.  Had  this  trial  stood 
iilone,  the  prisoner's  counsel  might  have  sne- 
cessfully  jileaded  his  high  charac^ter,  as  Well 
as  his  wealth,  against  this  cliarg«',  and  shown 

I  that  it  was  false  because  it  was  morally  im- 
possible. Ibit  this  was  no  longer  of  avail, 
and  in  the  public  mind  Frederick  Dalton  was 
deemed  only  a  d<'S])erate  murderer,  whose 
good  ri'jiutation  was  merely  the  result  of 

,  life-long  hyjioerisy,  and  whose  character  was 
but  an  empty  name. 

And  so  in  this  trial  it  was  shown  that 
Dalton  had  first  jmt  forth  tin;  forged  check, 
and  afterward  lejirniiig  that  it  was  discov- 
ered prcm.'itnrely,  had  hurried  to  Liverjiool 
so  as  to  get  it  back  from  Mr.  Henderson.  His 
asserted  wealth  was  not  btilieved  in.  Efforts 
were  iiuide  to  show  that  he  had  been  con- 
nected with  mi'ii  of  desjterate  fortunes,  and 

I  had  himself  been  perhaiis  betting  heavily; 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


15 


trial 
itod; 
loiild 
inado 
Tlie 
widc- 
n»nji;li 
When, 
tlu^re 
thiit 
iiinK 
stood 

■  NUO- 

liown 
ini- 
avail, 
II  was 

iIlOSO 

lit  of 
■r  was 


that 
it'ck, 

Sl'OV- 

rpool 
1 1  in 
ftorts 
con- 
,  and 
vily; 


and  all  tlii«  arts  wliicli  arc  nsnally  employed 
by  iuiscnii)iilouH  or  exeittMl  advocates  to 
cnisli  an  acensod  man  were  freely  pnt  forth. 
Experts  were  liroiiKlit  from  London  to  exam- 
ine IJalton's  handwritin},',  and  compare  it 
with  tliat  of  the  forced  check;  and  the.w 
men,  yieldiii;^  to  theconnnon  ])rejndi<e,  j^avo 
it  as  their  opinion  that  he  was,  or  might  have 
Ixrn  (!),  the  anthi)r  of  the  forgery. 

Hnt  all  this  was  as  nothiii;^  wlien  com- 
jiared  with  the  injury  which  Diilton  himself 
dill  to  his  own  eanse  hy  the  c'>nrse  which  he 
ch()S(!  to  adopt.  Content iiij;  himself  with 
th(!  simple  asserticMi  of  his  innocence,  he  re- 
fused to  jfive  the  name  of  the  Kuilty  man  or 
to  say  any  thin;;  that  mi^lit  lead  to  his  dis- 
covery. Actuated  by  a  lofty  sense  of  honor, 
a  chivalrous  sentinnsnt  of  loyalty  and  friend- 
ship, he  kejtt  the  secret  with  obstinate  lidel- 
ily;  and  tln^  almost  frantic  a|>pea1s  of  his 
counsel,  who  saw  in  the  discovery  of  the  real 
oll'cndcr  the  only  chance  tor  tlu!  escape  of 
•lie  .'icciised,  and  who  nstul  every  possible 
ar;;unient  to  shake  his  resolve,  availed  not 
in  the  slightest  de;;ree  to  shake  his  tirmness. 
Tlii'y  employed  detectives,  anil  instituted 
imiuiries  in  all  directions  in  the  endeavor 
to  tind  out  who  niijiht  be  this  friend  for 
whom  Dalton  was  willing  to  risk  honor  and 
life  ;  but  their  search  was  comiiletely  lialllcd. 
Dalton's  silence  was  therefore  taken  as  an 
evidence  of  ^jiiilt,  and  his  refusal  to  confess 
on  a  friend  was  re;;arded  as  a  silly  attempt 
to  excite  public  sympathy.  When  the  eoiin- 
licl  ventured  to  briii;;  this  forward  to  the 
Jury,  and  tried  to  portray  Dalton  as  a  man 
who  chose  rather  to  sutler  than  to  say  that 
which  miyht  briii;;  a  friend  to  destruction, 
it  was  re.tjarded  as  a  wild,  (Quixotic,  and 
maudlin  iiiece  of  sentiinentalism  on  the  part 
of  said  counsel,  !ind  was  treated  by  the  ))ros- 
ecutioii  with  unspeakable  scorn  and  ridi- 
cule. Under  such  circumstances  the  result 
was  inevitable  :  Erederick  Dalton  was  de- 
clared guilty,  and  sentenced  to  transporta- 
tion for  life. 

Aiuon^  the  notes  which  had  been  written 
by  Miss  I'lymjtton,  Edith  was  very  forcibly 
struck  by  some  which  referred  to  John 
Wi^^ins. 

"Who  is  this  .1.  W.  ?"  was  written  in  one 
place.  "How  did  E.  D.  become  aciiuaiuted 
with  him  f" 

In  another  jdace,  where  Wi^^ins  gave 
his  testimony  about  the  note,  was  written: 
"  Where  was  J.  W.  during  that  hour  ?  Had 
he  f^one  to  Evertoii  himself?" 

And  ayaiii :  "  .1.  W.  was  the  friend  of  F.  D., 
and  wished  to  save  him.  Miyht  he  not  have 
done  more  ?" 

A^ain  :  "  Mark  well !  J.  W.  is  a  Liverpool 
man.  11.  was  a  Liverpool  man.  Had  E.  D. 
ever  heard  of  even  the  name  of  H.  before  the 
fi>r;;ery  f  What  was  the  nature  of  the  deal- 
ings between  E.  I),  and  J.  W.?" 

Again,  when  Dalton's  silence  was  so  sl.arj- 


ly  commented  on  and  nrged  as  a  proof  of  his 
guilt,  there  occurred  the  following:  "  If  E.  D. 
was  silent,  why  did  not  J.W.  open  his  month  i 
Must  he  not  have  known  at  least  something  T 
Could  he  not  have  set  the  authorities  upon 
the  track  of  the  real  criminal,  and  thus  huvo 
waved  E.  1).  f " 

Again  :  "  The  Maltese  cross  did  not  belong 
to  Dalton.  He  had  ordered  it  to  be  made. 
Eor  whom  ?  Was  it  not  for  this  same  friend 
for  whom  he  was  now  sutferingf  Was  not 
this  friend  the  murderer?  Has  hi-  not  thrown 
suspicion  upon  E. D.liy  that  writing  in  blood? 
The  same  one  who  comniitted  the  ninriKu' 
wrote  the  false  charge,  and  left  the  Maltese 
cross.'' 

Other  notes  of  a  similar  character  occurred 
in  various  ]daces,  liiit  those  which  impressed 
Edith  most  were  the  following: 

"  E.  D.  was  evidently  betrayed  by  his  false 
friend.  Was  not  that  false  friend  the  real 
murderer?  Did  lu^  not  contrive  to  throw 
lui  E.  I),  tli.^  suspicion  of  the  miinler?  Might 
not  the  forgery  itself  from  the  very  begin- 
ning have  been  part  of  a  i»lan  to  ruin  E.  D.? 
Hut  why  ruin  him  ?  Evidently  to  gain  some 
benetit.  Now  who  has  been  most  beiielit- 
ed  by  the  ruin  of  E.  D.?  Wlioi'ver  he  is, 
must  not  he  be  the  murderer  and  the  false 
friend?" 

Again,  a  little  fiirtln^r  on  :  "Has  any  one 
gained  any  thing  from  the  ruin  of  E.  1).  but 
,(.  W.  ?  Has  not  .1.  W.  ever  since  had  control 
of  the  Dalton  property  ?  Is  he  not  rich  now  ? 
Has  not  the  ruin  of  E.  1).  made  the  fortune 
of  .J.W.?" 

.*<uch  was  the  substance  of  the  papers  which 
Edith  perused.  They  were  voluminons,  and 
she  continued  at  her  task  all  through  that 
night,  her  heart  all  the  time  tilled  with  a 
thousand  contending  emotions. 

IJelbre  her  mind  all  the  time  there  was 
the  image  of  her  father  in  the  Judgment-hall. 
There  he  stood,  the  innocent  man,  betraytul 
by  his  friend,  and  yet  standing  there  in  his 
sim)ile  faith  and  truth  to  save  that  friend, 
obstinate  in  his  self-sacrilieing  lidelity,  true 
to  faith  when  the  other  had  |>roved  himself 
worthless,  snlfeiiiig  what  can  only  be  suf- 
fered by  a  generous  nature  as  the  hours  and 
the  days  jiassed  iiiid  the  end  apitroached, 
and  still  the  traitor  allowed  him  to  snft'er. 
And  there  was  the  hate  iinil  K(M)rn  of  man, 
the  clamor  for  vengeance  fVoni  society,  the 
condemnation  of  tin?  Jury  who  had  prejudged 
his  ease,  the  sneer  of  the  ])ai(l  advocate,  the 
scoff  of  the  gaping  crowd,  to  whom  the  plea 
of  iiohlcsKC  obliijc  ;inil  stainless  honor  and  per- 
fect truth  seemed  only  maudlin  sentimentid- 
ity  and  Quixotic  extravaganci!. 

All  these  thoughts  were  in  Edith's  mind 
as  she  read,  and  tliesi;  feelings  swelled  with- 
in her  indignant  heart  as  all  the  facts  in 
that  dread  tragedy  were  slowly  revealed  one 
by  one.  Ciuniug  to  this  task  with  a  mind 
convinced  at  the  outset  of  her  father's  inno- 


16 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


oencc,  shft  mot  with  not  ono  circumstance 
that  could  HJiiiko  tliat  conviction  for  a  mo- 
ment. In  licr  own  Htrontj  Ccclinj;  hIic  was 
incapnMc  of  MiKlcrstitiulin^f  how  any  ono 
could  lioiK'Htly  think  othcrwisf.  Tlii^  tcHti- 
mony  of  ailvrrsc  witncHscH  h(  ciniul  to  her 
jxTJiiry.  the  arjjimu  nts  of  t'lc  lawyers  tiend- 
ish  malignity,  the  last  sinnniinf^  n]i  of  the 
jnd};e  hitter  prejudiee,  and  the  verdict  of 
the  jury  a  mockery  of  justice. 


CHAPTER  in. 

THK   MOMKNTOrS   HKSOI.VE. 

Eaui.Y  on  the  folIowin>?  morning  Miss 
Plymiiton  called  on  Edith,  and  was  slioeked 
to  see  the  changes  that  had  heen  made  in 
her  hy  that  one  night.  She  did  not  regard 
80  much  tlie  pallor  of  her  face,  the  languor 
of  her  nntnner,  and  her  unelastie  ste|>,  hut 
rather  the  nr-v  expression  that  ajipeared 
upon  her  con  iiance,  tin;  thoughtfulness 
of  her  hrow,  the  deep  and  earnest  ahstrac- 
tiim  of  her  ga/.<'.  In  that  oiu^  inght  she 
seemed  to  have  stepped  from  girlliood  to 
maturity.  It  was  as  though  she  had  lived 
tlirough  the  intervening  exi>erienee.  Years 
had  heeii  crowded  into  hours.  She  was  no 
longer  a  school-girl — she  was  a  woman. 

Miss  I'lympton  soon  retired,  with  the 
promise  to  conn?  again  when  Edith  should 
feel  stronger.  Breakfast  was  sent  up,  and 
taken  away  untasted,  and  at  noon  Miss 
I'lympton  once  more  made  her  apjiearatice. 

*'  I  have  heen  thinking  ahout  nuiiiy  things," 
said  Edith,  after  some  j)relimiiniry  remarks, 
"and  have  l)eeu  trying  to  recall  what  I  can 
of  my  own  rememhrance  of  papa.  I  was 
only  eight  years  old,  hut  I  liave  a  pretty 
distinct  recollection  of  him,  aiid  it  has  heen 
strengthened  hy  his  portrait,  which  I  always 
hiive  had.  Of  my  mother  I  have  a  most 
vivid  rememhrance,  and  I  have  never  for- 
gotten ono  single  circnmstanco  connected 
with  lier  last  illness.  I  renu^mher  your  ar- 
rival, and  my  departure  from  home  after  all 
was  ov<'r.  Ihit  there  is  ono  thing  which  I 
should  like  very  nnich  to  ask  you  ahout. 
IJid  none  of  my  mother's  relatives  come  to 
see  her  <luring  this  timef 

"Your  mother's  relatives  acted  very  had- 
ly  indeed,  dear.  From  the  first  they  were 
carried  away  hy  the  common  helief  in  your 
dear  fathiT's  guilt.  Some  of  them  came  Hy- 
ing to  your  nmther.  She  was  very  ill  at  the 
time,  and  these  relatives  hrought  her  the 
first  news  which  she  received.  It  was  a 
severe  hlow.  They  were  hard-hearted  or 
thoughtless  enough  to  denounce  your  father 
to  her,  and  she  in  her  weak  stat(!  tried  to 
defend  him.  All  this  i)roduced  so  deplorable 
an  effect  that  she  sank  rapidly.  Iler  rela- 
tives left  her  in  this  condition.  She  tried  to 
be  carried  to  your  dear  father  iu  his  prison, 


but  could  not  hear  the  journey.  They  took 
her  as  far  as  the  gates,  hut  she  fainte<l  there, 
and  had  to  he  taken  hack  to  the  house.  8<» 
then  she  gave  u)).  She  knew  that  she  was 
going  to  die,  and  wrote  to  me  imidoriug  mo 
to  como  to  her.  She  wished  to  intrust  you 
to  nn*.     I  took  you  from  her  arms — " 

Miss  1  lyiuptiui  paused,  and  Edith  was 
silent  for  some  finite 

"  So,"  said  she,  in  a  scarce  amlihlo  voice, 
"darling  numuna  died  of  a  broken  heart  f" 

Miss  l*lym|iton  said  nothing.  A  long  si- 
lence followed, 

"Had  my  father  no  friends," asked  Edith, 
"or  no  relatives?" 

"He  had  no  relatives,"  said  Miss  Plyinp- 
ton,  "  but  an  only  sister.      She  manii-d  a 
(.'aptain  Dudleigh,  now  !>ir  Lionel  Diulleigh. 
Ihit  it  was  a  very  uidiappy  marriage,  for 
they  separated.      I  never  knew  the  cause; 
an<l  Captitin  Dudleigh  took  it  so  nuu'h  to 
heart  thiit  he  went  ahroail.     He  could  not 
'  havti  heard  of  your  father's  misfortunes  till 
I  all  was  over  and  it  was  too  late.    Hut  in  any 
case  I  do  not  see  what  he  could  have  done, 
nidess  he  hiid  contrived  to  "hake  yotir  fa- 
ther's resolve.     As  to  his  wife,  I  have  never 
heard  of  her  movements,  and  I  think  she 
I  nmst  have  died  long  ago.     Neither  she  nor 
'  her  husband  is  mentioned  at  the  trial.     If 
they  had  been  iu  England,  it  seems  to  me 
thiit  they  woulil  have  com«!  forward  as  wit- 
nesses iu  sonu!  way;  so  I  think  they  were 
both  out  of  the  country.     Sir  Lioiu-l  is  alive? 
yet,  I  think,  but  he  has  always  live<l  (uit  of 
the  worhl.    I  believe  his  family  troubles  de- 
stroyed his  happiness,  and  made  him  some- 
what   misanthropical.      1    have   sometimes 
thought  in  former  years  tli.-it  he  might  nnike 
j  in(|uirie8  about  y(ui,  but  ho  has  never  done 
so  to  my  knowledge,  though  perhaps  he  has 
j  tried  without  being  abl;>  to  hear  where  you 
were.     After  all,  lie  would  scarcely  know 
j  where  t()  look.     On  the  whole,  I  consider 
I  Sir  Lionel  the  only  friend  you  liave,  Edith 
darling,  besides  myself,  and  if  any  trouble 
I  shouhl  ever  arise,  he  would  bo  tho  «)no  to 
!  whom  I  should  apply  for  assistance,  or  at 
I  least  advice." 

I  Edith  listened  to  this,  and  made  no  com- 
ment, but  after  another  thoughtful  pause 
she  said, 

"Ahout  this  Wiggins  —  have  yon  ever 
heard  any  thing  of  him  since  the — tho 
trial  ?" 

Miss  Plympton  shook  lier  head. 
"No,"  said  she,  "except  ir.)m  those  form- 
al business  ut)tes.     You  have  seen  them  all, 
and  know  what  tln'y  are." 

"Have  yon  ever  formed  any  opinion  of 
him  more  favorable  than  what  you  wrote  iu 
those  notes  ?" 

"I  do  not  think  that  I  wrote  any  thing 
more  than  suspicions  or  surmises,"  said  Miss 
Plympton;  "and  as  fir  as  sus|)icions  are 
coucerned,  I  certainly  have  not  changed  my 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


17 


Tlicy  took 
iiiit('«l  there, 

'  llOllHl'.       So 

hilt  hIi)^  wtiH 
iiploriii^  iiio 

iiititiNt  you 
im— " 

Edith  was 

iilililo  voice, 
•Ml  lioart  f" 
A  long  si- 

iskod  Edith, 

HiKS  riymp- 
!••  iiiari'it'd  a 
*'I  Diidlci^rli. 
larriaj;!',  lor 
tli(^  caiiNo; 

80    lllllcll   to 

[i\  could  not 

lortmu's  till 

liiit  ill  any 

1  liavf  done, 

iki>  your  fa- 

[  have  never 

I  think  she 

tlier  hIio  nor 

U!  trial.     If 

seeiiiH  to  nio 

ivard  as  wit- 

k  they  were 

onel  is  alive 

lived  out  of 

trouMes  de- 

hiiii  Nomc- 

HonietiineH 

niit;ht  make 

nevi'r  done 

laps  he  has 

where  you 

cely  know 

I  consider 

have,  Editli 

my  trouble 

the  Olio  to 

tauce,  or  at 

ide  no  com- 
litful  pause 

you    ever 
the— the 

il. 

those  form- 
al them  all, 

opinion  of 
ou  wrote  in 

any  thing 

"said  Miss 

picions  are 

changed  my 


mind.  The  p'v.ition  wiiich  he  otcnpied  dur- 
ing the  tri;il,  and  ever  since,  excites  my  sim- 
picions  against  him.  All  othcis  siitfered  ; 
lie  alone  was  benefited.  Anil  now,  too, 
when  all  is  over,  he  Kccms  still  in  his  old 
jiosition— perhaps  a  better  one  than  ever — 
the  agent  of  the  estates,  and  assuming  to 
sonic  extent  a  guardianshii>  over  you.  At 
least  he  gives  directions  about  yi<u,  for  he 
says  you  are  to  go  back  to  Dalton  Hall. 
Itiit  ill  that  he  shall  find  himself  mistaken, 
for  I  will  never  allow  y<m  to  put  yourself  in 
his  power." 

"  Have  you  over  seen  liliu  T"  asked  Edith. 

"No." 

She  bent  down  her  head,  and  leaned  her 
forehead  on  her  hand. 

"Well,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  half  to 
herself,  "  it  don't  matter;  I  shall  see  him 
soon  myself." 

"  .S'c  iiim  yourself !"  said  Miss  Plympton, 
iinxiiiiisly.     "What  do  you  mean  f" 

"Oh,  i  shall  see  him  soon — when  I  g(;t  to 
Dalton  Hall." 

"Italtoii  Hall!" 

"Yes,"  said  Edith,  sinii>ly,  raising  her 
liead  and  looking  calmly  ;it  Miss  I'lympton. 

"Hut  you  are  not  going  to  I>altoii  Hall." 

"There  is  no  other  jilace  for  me,"  said 
Edith,  sadly.  "I  am  going — I  am  going  as 
soon  as  jiossible." 

"Oh  no — oh  no,  darling;  yon  are  going 
to  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Miss  I'lynip-  | 
ton.  "  I  can  not  let  you  go.  AVe  all  love  [ 
you  too  dearly.  This  is  your  home,  and  I 
now  stand  in  the  place  of  those  whom  you 
have  lost.  You  arc  never  to  leave  me,  Edith 
dearest." 

Edith  sighed  heavily,  and  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said,  sjieaking  in  a  low,  melan- 
choly voice — "  no,  I  can  not  stay.  I  can  not 
meet  my  friends  here  again.  I  am  not  what 
I  was  yesterday.  I  am  changed.  It  seems 
as  though  some  heavy  weight  has  come  upon 
me.  I  must  go  away,  and  I  have  only  one 
place  to  go  to,  and  that  is  my  father's  home." 

"My  darling,"  said  Miss  l'lym]iton,  draw- 
ing her  chair  close  to  Editii,  and  twining 
her  arms  about  her,  "you  must  not  talk  so; 
you  can  not  iniagino  how  you  distress  inc. 
I  can  not  let  you  go.  Do  not  think  of  these 
things.  We  all  love  you.  Do  not  imagine 
that  your  secret  will  be  discovered.  No  one 
shall  ever  know  it.  In  a  few  days  you  your- 
self will  feel  dilferent.  The  consciousness 
of  your  father's  innocence  will  make  you 
feel  more  iiatient,  and  the  love  of  all  your 
friends  will  make  your  life  as  happy  as  ever." 

"  No,"  said  Edith,  "  I  can  not— I  can  not. 
Yon  can  not  imagine  how  I  dread  to  see  the 
face  of  any  one  of  them.  I  shall  imagine 
that  they  know  all ;  and  I  can  not  tell  them. 
They  will  tease  me  to  tell  them  my  troubles, 
and  it  will  (uily  worry  me.  No,  for  me  to 
stay  here  is  impossible.  I  would  go  any 
where  tirst.'' 

B 


She  spoke  ho  flmily  and  decisivi'ly  that 
Miss  I'lyinpton  forbore  to  press  her  further 
just  then. 

"At  any  rate,  my  darling,"  said  she,  "yon 
need  not  think  of  Dalton  Hall.  I  can  tind 
you  otliiT  placi's  which  will  be  far  more  suit- 
able to  you  i;i  every  way.  If  it  distresses 
you  to  stay  here,  1  can  lind  a  hap|>y  home 
for  yon,  where  you  can  stay  ti'l  you  feel  able 
to  return  to  iis  again." 

"  Then)  is  no  place,"  said  Edith,  "  where  I 
can  stay.  I  do  not  want  to  go  among  stran- 
gers, or  to  strange  ])laees.  I  have  a  Ikuiic, 
and  that  is  the  only  ]dace  that  I  can  go  to 
now.  That  home  is  familiar  to  nie,  I  re- 
member it  well.  It  is  where  I  was  born. 
Dear  mamma's  room  is  there,  where  I  used 
to  sit  with  her  and  hear  her  voice.  My  dear 
])a]ia  ami  mamma  were  ha]i]iy  there;  and 
she  died  there.  It  has  its  own  associations  ; 
and  now  siiici'  this  great  sorrow  has  come,  I 
long  to  go  there.  It  seems  the  fittest  itlaco 
for  me." 

"  Hilt,  my  child," said  Miss  riymi)ton,  anx- 
iously, "there  is  one  thing  that  yon  do  not 
consider.  Ear  be  it  from  uw  to  stand  in  the 
way  of  any  of  your  wishes,  especially  at  a 
time  like  this,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  a  re- 
turn to  Dalton  Hall  just  now  is  hardlv  safe." 

"Safe!" 

Eilitli  spoke  in  a  tone  of  surprise,  ami 
lo(d{<Ml  iiiiiiiiriiigly  at  Miss  I'lympton. 

"  1  don't  like  this  .lohn  Wiggins,"  said 
Miss  I'lvmpton,  uneasilv  ;  "I  am  afraid  of 
him." 

"  Hut  what  possible  cause  can  there  be  of 
fear  Tasked  Edith. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Plympton, 
with  a  sigh  ;  "  no  one  can  tell.  If  my  sus- 
jiicions  are  at  all  correct,  he  is  a  man  who 
might  be  very  dangerous.  He  has  control 
of  all  the  estates,  and — " 

"  Hut  for  that  very  reason  I  would  go 
home,"  said  Edith,  "if  there  were  no  stronger 
inducement,  to  do  what  I  can  to  put  an  end 
to  his  iminagement." 

"  How  could  you  do  any  thing  with  him  t" 
asked  Miss  I'lympton;  "you  so  young  ami 
inexperienced." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Edith,  simply  ;  "but 
the  estates  are  mine,  and  not  his ;  and  Dal- 
ton Hall  is  mine  ;  and  if  I  am  the  owner, 
surely  I  ought  to  have  some  jiower.  There 
are  other  agents  in  the  world,  and  other 
lawyers.  They  can  help  me.  if  I  wish  help. 
We  are  not  living  in  the  Midille  Ages,  when 
some  one  could  seize  one's  property  by  the 
strong  liand  and  keep  it.  There  is  law  in 
the  country,  and  Wiggins  is  subject  to  it." 

"  Oh,  my  child,"  said  Miss  Plympton,  anx- 
iously, "  I  am  terrified  at  the  very  thought 
of  your  being  in  that  man's  power.  You 
can  not  tell  what  things  are  possible ;  and 
though  there  is  law,  tm  you  say,  yet  it  does 
not  aMv;!y«  bapiien  that  one  can  get  justice." 

"That  I  know,  or  ought  to  know,"  said 


18 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Edith,  in  a  mnnrnfnl  voice ;  "  I  havo  learned 
that  tills  jiuHt  nijjlit  cinly  too  well." 

"  It  Hccins  to  tnt',"Maid  MJHHPlynipton,  witli 
the  smnti  anxiety  in  licr  voice,  "tlinl  to  re- 
turn to  Dalton  Hall  will  lie  to  jnit  yonrnelf 
in  Home  way  int<i  IiIh  jiower.  If  lie,  is  really 
the  unHernpulouH,  crafty,  and  Hclieniln;r  man 
that  I  have  Hnsjiected  him  to  be,  lie  will  not 
And  it  ilitlleiilt  to  weave  Home  ]ilot  aroniul 
you  which  may  endanm'r  your  whole  life. 
There  is  no  safety  in  lieinj;  near  that  man. 
Be  mistrcHM  of  I)alton  Hall,  lint  do  not  ^o 
there  till  you  have  di'iven  hint  away.  It 
seenm  by  his  last  letters  as  though  he  is  liv- 
ing there  now,  and  if  yon  pi  tln-re  y<iu  will 
tind  yourself  in  some  sense  under  his  con- 
trol." 

"Well,"  Haid  Edith,  "I  do  not  doubt  his 
willinjjness  to  injure  me  if  he  can,  or  to  weave 
a  i)lot  which  shall  ruin  me;  lint,  after  all, 
such  ft  thin;;  takes  time.  He  can  not  ruin 
me  in  one  day,  or  in  one  wet^k,  an<l  so  I  think 
I  can  return  to  Dalton  Hall  in  safety,  and  be 
secure  for  a  few  days  at  least." 

MisH  Plympton  nuide  some  further  objec;- 
tions,  but  the  va^ne  fears  to  which  she  ^ave 
expression  met  with  no  resjionse  from  Edith, 
who  looked  ujion  her  journey  home  in  a  vciry 
sober  anil  commonidace  lijiht,  and  refustid 
to  let  her  imagination  t»'rrify  her.  Hi?r  ar- 
gument that  Wi^Kiu"  would  re(|uire  time  to 
injure  her  was  luit  «'asy  to  answer,  and  grad- 
ually Miss  Plymjitriu  fouml  herself  forced 
to  yitdil  to  Edith's  determination.  In  fact, 
then*  was  nnudi  in  that  resolve  which  was 
highly  natural.  Edith,  in  the  first  pla(;o, 
could  not  bear  to  resume  her  intimacy  with 
her  school-nuites,  for  reasons  which  she  had 
stated  already  ;  and,  in  addition  to  this,  she 
had  iv  strong  and  irresistible  longing  to  go 
to  the  oidy  place  that  was  now  ]h'T  home. 
There  she  hoix'd  to  find  peace,  and  gain  con- 
solation in  tlie  midst  of  the  scenes  of  her 
childhood  and  the  memories  of  her  parents. 
These  were  her  chief  motives  for  action  now  ; 
lint  in  addition  to  these  she  had  others.  The 
chief  was  a  strong  desire  to  dismiss  Wiggins 
from  his  jiost  of  agent. 

The  detestation  which  she  had  already 
conceived  for  this  man  has  lieen  noticed  in  a 
previous  chajiter.  It  had  grown  during  past 
years  out  of  a  habit  of  her  mind  to  associate 
with  him  the  ajiparcnt  alienation  of  her  fa- 
ther. But  now,  since  her  father's  past  life  was 
explained,  this  .John  Wiggins  ajipeared  in  a 
new  light.  The  dark  suggestions  of  Miss 
Plympton,  her  8us)iieiona  as  to  his  character 
and  motives,  had  sunk  deep  into  the  soul  of 
Edith,  aiul  taken  root  there.  She  had  not 
yet  been  able  to  bring  herself  to  think  that 
this  John  Wiggins  was  himself  the  treacher- 
ous friend,  but  she  was  on  the  high-road  to 
thiit  belief,  and  already  had  advanced  far 
enough  to  feel  convinced  that  Wiggins  could 
have  at  least  saved  her  father  if  he  liad  chosen. 
Oiie  thing,  however,  was  evident  to  all  the 


world,  and  that  was  what  Miss  Plympton 
laid  HO  much  stress  on,  the  fact  that  ho  had 
profited  by  her  father's  ruin,  ami  had  won 
gold  and  intluenci<  and  poHition  <iut  of  her 
father's  tears  and  ag<iiues  aiul  di>ath.  And 
HO,  while  she  loiig*;d  to  go  home  for  her  own 
(Minsolation,  there  also  arose  within  her  an- 
other nuitivt*  to  draw  her  Ihert^ — the  desire 
to  see  this  Wiggins,  to  confront  him,  to  talk 
to  him  face  to  face,  to  drive  him  out  from 
the  I)alt<in  estates,  and  if  she  could  not 
vindicate  her  father's  memory,  fit  least  jiut 
an  end  tu  the  triumph  of  one  of  his  false 
frii^nds. 

The  residt  of  this  interview  was,  then,  that 
Edith  should  return  to  Dalton  Hall;  and  as 
she  was  unwilling  to  wait,  she  decided  to 
leave  in  two  days.  Miss  Plympton  was  to 
go  with  her. 

"And  now,"  said  Miss  Plymidon,  "we 
must  write  at  once  and  give  notice  of  your 
coming." 

"  Write  f"  said  Edith,  coldly,  "  to  whom  ?" 

"Why,  to — to  Wiggins,  I  sujipose,"  said 
Miss  Plympton,  with  some  hesitation. 

"  I  refuse  to  recognize  Wiggins,"  said 
Edith.  "  I  will  not  communicate  with  him 
in  unv  wav.  AIv  first  act  shall  be  to  dismiss 
him.'' 

"  Hut  you  must  send  some  notice  to  some 
oni';  yon  nnisf  have  some  pre]ia rations  made." 

"  Oh,  I  shall  not  need  any  elaborate  jirejia- 
rations  ;  a  room  will  be  sulllcient.  I  should 
not  wish  to  encounter  tin,'  greetings  of  this 
man,  or  see  him  comjilacently  take  crinlit  to 
himself  ftir  his  attentions  to  me — anil  his 
preparations.  No;  I  shall  go  and  take  things 
as  I  find  them,  and  I  should  prefer  to  go  with- 
out notice." 

At  this  Miss  Plympton  seenied  a  little  more 
uneasy  than  before,  and  madi^  further  efforts 
to  change  Edith's  decision,  but  in  vain.  She 
was,  in  fact,  more  perplexed  at  Edith  herself 
than  at  any  other  thing;  for  this  one  who 
but  a  day  before  had  been  a  gentle,  tractable, 
docile,  gay,  light-hearted  girl  had  suddeidy 
started  up  into  u  stern,  self-willed  woman, 
with  a  dauntless  spirit  and  inflexible  re- 
solve. 

"  There  is  only  one  more  thing  that  I  have 
to  mention,"  said  Edith,  as  Miss  Plympton 
rose  to  go.  "  It  is  a  favor  that  I  have  to  ask 
of  you.  It  is  this ;"  and  she  laid  her  hand 
on  the  papers  of  the  report,  which  were  lying 
rolled  up  in  a  parcel  on  the  table.  "  Have 
you  any  further  use  for  this  f  Will  you  let 
me  keep  it  f" 

"The  need  that  I  had  for  it,"  said  Miss 
Plyini>ton.  "  was  over  when  I  gave  it  to  you. 
I  iirejiarcd  it  for  you,  and  preserved,  it  for 
you,  and  now  that  yoti  havo  it,  its  work  is 
accomiilished.  It  is  yours,  dearest,  for  you 
to  do  as  you  choosts  with  it." 

To  this  Edith  murmured  some  words  of 
thanks,  ami  taking  up  the  parcel,  proceeded 
to  tie  it  up  more  carefully. 


THE  LIVINO  LINK. 


19 


«  Plyiiiiiton 

thitt  ho  IiikI 

,11(1  liiul  won 

II  out  of  her 

iloiitli.     Ami 

for  Ikt  own 

thin  hiT  an- 

^ — tht'  (h'sini 

him,  to  talk 

lini  out  from 

w  conUl   not 

,  at  h-UHt  ]tut 

'  of  hiH  fiilHu 

as,  th(Mi,  that 
Hail ;  and  as 
fi  (h'l'idiMl  to 
ilttou  was  to 

•nii)ton,  "  wo 
olico  of  your 

"towliom?" 
npposf,"  Haid 
tation. 

ifl>;ins,"  said 
ati<  %vith  liim 

bo  totlismiss 

lotico  to  somo 
ationsnnidc." 
ilioratc  i>ri'iia- 
nt.     I  should 

tinj;s  of  this 
taki-  (Todit  to 

nu! — ami  his 
idtakothin^js 
to  f;o  with- 


i:d 

ti 

ti 


ill 


alittlonioro 

rthorctVorts 

vain.     Slio 

ith  horsolf 

s  o!io  who 

,  tractable, 

1(1  suddenly 

cd  woman, 

lloxible  ro- 


that  I  havo 
ss  I'lympton 

havo  to  ask 
id  hor  hand 
h  wero  lying 

1(\  "  Havo 
Will  you  let 


"  said  Miss 
xv(>  it  to  you. 
served  it  for 
ts  work  is 
rest,  for  you 

no  -words  of 
b1,  proceeded 


CHAITKU  IV. 

TIIK  WKMll.MK   IIOMK. 

I»At.To\  IIai.i.  was  one  of  the  most  ina;;- 
nilicent  conntry-scats  in  .Somorsclsliire,  'I'ln* 
village  of  I  tallon,  which  b(<ars  the  same  nani(> 
as  t\w  old  family  seat,  is  situated  on  the 
lianks  of  a  little  river  which  winds  through 
a  pleasant  plain  on  its  course  to  tlu;  iSristol 
Channel,  and  at  this  place  is  crossed  by  a 
tine  old  rustic  bridjje  with  two  .'irclies.  'I'he 
viljjip'  church,  a  heavy  edilice,  with  iin  enor- 
mous ivy-;;rown  tower,  stands  on  the  fuither 
HU\i-;  and  beyond  that  the  gables  and  chim- 
neys of  Dal  t(ni  llall  may  be  seen  rising,  about 
a  mile  away,  out  of  the  midst-  of  a  sea  of  fo- 
liage. The  jiorter's  hxlgi*  is  alnuit  half  a  mile 
distant  from  the  church,  and  the  massive 
wall  which  incloses  l>alt(ui  Park  runs  ahuig 
the  road  for  some  miles. 

There  was  a  railway  station  aliout  fmir 
miles  away  from  the  village,  and  it  was  at 
this  station  that  Kdilh  arrived  on  her  way 
home.  .Miss  I'lympton  liad  conn?  with  lu'r, 
with  the  intention  of  remaining  long  enougli 
to  sc(^  iMlith  conifiirtably  installed  in  her  new 
abode,  and  with  the  hope  of  persuiiding  her 
to  go  back  if  circumstances  did  not  seem  fa- 
vm  able.  A  footman  aud  a  miiid  also  accom- 
panied them. 

On  roaching  the  station  they  found  them- 
selves at  first  at  a  loss  how  to  jirocced,  for 
there  were  no  carriages  in  wailing.  Of 
course,  as  no  notice  had  been  sent  of  Ikm- 
Joiiruey,  Kdith  could  not  ex]iect  to  Hud  iiuy 
carriage  from  Dalton  Hall;  nordid  sht^  think 
much  about  this  circumstance.  Dressed  in 
deep  mourning,  with  her  pale  face  and  dark, 
thoughtful  eyes,  she  seemed  to  be  given  nji 
to  her  own  mournful  rellections ;  aud  on 
tiuding  that  they  would  have  to  wait,  she 
seated  herself  on  a  bench,  and  looked  with 
an  abstracted  gaze  upon  the  snrroiimling 
scene.  Miss  I'lympton  gave  some  directions 
to  the  footmiin,who  at  once  went  off  to  seek 
a  carriage;  after  which  she  seated  herself 
near  Kdith,  whih;  the  maid  sat  on  a  trunk 
at  a  little  distance.  They  had  tr.iveled  all 
day  long,  and  felt  very  nmch  fatign(Ml;  so 
that  nothing  was  said  by  any  of  tlicni  as 
they  sat  then!  waiting  for  the  footnniu's  re- 
turn. At  length,  after  about  half  an  hour,  a 
hackney-coach  drove  uji,  which  the  footman 
had  i>rocured  from  an  inn  not  far  away,  and 
in  this  undignified  nnuuna'  they  ]ire]iare(l  to 
complete  their  journey.  A  long  diivo  of 
four  or  tiv((  inih^s  now  remained  ;  and  when 
at  length  they  niached  the  ])ark  gate  mnns 
of  them  had  much  strength  left.  Hero  the 
coach  stopped,  and  the  footnnin  rang  tho 
bell  loudly  and  impatietitly. 

Then!  was  no  innnediato  answer  to  thi.s 
snmnKMis,  and  tin;  footman  rang  agai.i  and  \ 
again  ;  and  finally,  as  the  ch'lay  still  contin- ! 
nod,  ho  gave  tho  bell  a  dozen  trenuMulous 
pulls  in  (luick  succession.     This  brought  an 


I  answer,  at  any  rate  ;  for  a  man  fti)peareil, 
j  em(>rgiug  from  u  neighboring  grov(<,  who 
walke(l  toward  the  gate  with  a  rapid  pace. 
He  was  a  sluu-t,  bidl-necked,  thickset,  broad- 
shoul(lere(l  man,  with  coarst!  black  hair  and 
heavy,  nuitted  beard.  His  nose  was  flat  on 
his  face,  his  chin  was  s(|uarc,  and  In*  looked 
exactly  lik(!  a  prize-fighter,  lie  had  a  re(l 
shirt,  with  a  yellow  spotted  handkerchief 
flung  ab(uit  his  neck,  and  his  corduroy  tniw- 
seis  wen!  tucked  into  a  ]iair  of  nnnldy  boots, 

Th(!  moment  he  reached  th(!  gat(!  Ii(!  roar- 
ed out  a  volli!y  of  tli(!  most  fearful  oaths: 
Who  wen!  they  f  What  did  they  m(!an, 
(lauli  theniT  What  tli(!  thoili  daxh  did  they 
mean  by  nuiking  such  a  <titnli  dauli  nois(!  f 

"  V'on'll  get  y(mr  ugly  head  broken,  you 
scoundrel  I"  roared  the  footman,  who  was 
beside  himself  with  rage  at  tlii«  insult  to 
his  mistress,  coming  as  it  did  at  th(!  dose 
of  so  long  and  irritating  a  di!lay.  "Hold 
your  infernal  tongue,  and  o|>en  tlu!  gate  at 
on(!o.  Is  this  the  way  you  dare  to  talk  be- 
fore your  mistress  f" 

"Mistress!  Y(mi  lUixhrd  fool,"  was  the  re- 
s])ouse,  "what  the  dnxh  do  I  know  about 
mistresse.'i  ?  And  if  it  comes  to  breaking 
li(!a(ls,  I'll  niak(!  a  beginning  with  you,  you 
sleek,  fat  powder-monkey,  with  your  shiny 
boaver  and  stuffed  calves!" 

Kdith  heard  all  this,  ami  her  amazement 
was  so  gn'at  thiit  it  dnive  away  all  fatigiu!. 
Her  heart  beat  high  and  her  spirit  rost!  at 
this  insult.  Opening  th(>  carriag*!  door,  sIk! 
sprang  out,  and,  walking  up  to  tht!  gate,  she 
coll fi'on ted  the  iiorterasagixldess  might  con- 
fnuit  a  satyr.  Tlu!  calm,  cold  gaz(!  which  slit! 
gave  him  was  one  which  the  briit(!  could  not 
oncoiinter.  Ho  could  face  any  one  of  his  own 
order;  but  tho  eyt!  that  now  rested  on  !tiiii 
gave  him  pain,  and  his  glance  fell  sulkily  be- 
fore that  of  his  mistress. 

"  I  am  your  mistress — Miss  Dalton,"  said 
Edith.     "Open  that  gate  immediately." 

"1  don't  know  siny  thing  alxuit  mistress- 
es," said  the  fellow.  "My  orders  an!  not  to 
op(!n  them  gates  to  nobody." 

At  this  rebuff  Edith  was  for  a  inomeut 
])erpl(!xe(l,  but  so(Ui  rallied.  .Slit!  retlccteil 
that  this  man  was  a  .stirvant  under  orders, 
and  that  it  would  be  us(!less  to  talk  to  him. 
She  must  see  tht!  jirincijial. 

"  Who  gavi!  tliost!  orders  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Mr.  A\'iggiiis,"  saitl  the  man,  giullly. 

"  Is  that  luaii  hi!re  ntiw  ?"  aski!d  Edith. 

The  man  looked  nj)  suspiciously  and  in  ev- 
ident surprise,  but  his  eyes  fell  again. 

"Mr.  Wiggins?  He  is  liert!;  he  lives 
here." 

"  Then  do  you  go  at  once,"  sjiid  Edith,  loft- 
ily," and  say  to  that  man  that  Miss  Dalton  is 
hen!." 

The  ft!llow  glanced  furtively  at  the  car- 
riage, where  he  saw  tho  pale  face  of  Miss 
Plympton  and  the  jialer  face  of  the  maid, 
and  then  with  a  grunt  he  turned  and  walk- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


('<l  up  tlir  nvomip.  Kilitli  went  Imck  to  flm 
caniiiK''  and  riMiiiiiiMl  hiiHcat. 

'I'liis  Hrt'iii-  hail  )ii'iiiliiri'il  a  iiritroiitiil  rft'ect 
11111)11  lirr  t  wo  (■t)iii|iaiiiiiii.s,  MisN  IM,viii|it<>irN 
worst  a|ii»rcli('iiHii)iiM  Hcciiicd  JiiNiillcd  Ity  this 
rndi'  rt'|iiil.si-  at  the  ^att-H,  and  thi^  iiionicnt 
that  I'.dilli  caiiK!  back  hIic  ht'){an  to  t-iitiitat 
liiT  til  I'ftiirii. 

"  ('oiiic  hack,"  kIic  Haid,  "  to  thi'  inn.  Do, 
dariiii;;,  at  hast  tor  tiio  ni^lit,  till  \vu  ciiii 
wild  word  to  \V''ininM." 

"No,"  said  Miiiiii,  tlrinly ;  "I  will  not  rec- 
<>;;ni/,i'  \\'iy;;;iiis  at  all.  I  am  K"i"W  <"  ''•'*- 
miss  him  tin-  moment  that  I  ciilrr  tin;  Hall. 
I  can  wait  iialimtly  Just  now." 

"  Ihit  at  least  conii'  hack  t'vr  this  ni^^ht. 
Yon  may  1m'  suit  that  they  will  not  he  ready 
fur  ytm.  You  will  have  to  I'onus  buck  after 
all." 

"\V.Il,"said  i;dith,"I  shall  at  least  take 
formal  |iossession  of  Dalton  Hall  lirst,  and 
let  \\'i;;y:ins  see  that  I  am  mistresn  there." 

.Miss  riympton  sighed.  Kvery  hour  only 
showed  in  a  stroii;;er  manner  how  ho]ieless 
wiis  any  attempt  of  hers  to  move  Kdith  from 
any  resolve  that  she  mifiht  make.  Already 
she  reeo}ini/,e(l  in  that  slender  yonnj;  nirl 
the  stuhiiorn  spirit  of  her  father — a  spirit 
which  would  meet  death  and  destruction 
rather  than  swerve  from  its  set  purpose. 

Nothiiij;  more  was  said,  hnt  they  all  wait- 
ed patiently  for  the  portci's  return.  It  seem- 
ed a  very  Ion;;  tinu'.  The  footman  fussed  and 
fumed,  and  at  lenf^th  liejiuiled  the  time  by 
smoking  ami  chatting;  with  the  coachman, 
whom  he  ipu'stioned  about  Mr.  AViji^'us. 
The  coachman,  however,  eonld  j;ive  him  no 
information  on  t)ie  snbject.  "I  on'y  know," 
said  he,  "as  how  th.at  this  yer  \VijLjnir.s  is 
a  Liverpool  fH'ui,  an'  latterly  lie  seems  in- 
clined to  live  here.  Hut  he  don't  in-ver  see 
no  eninpany,  an'  kee]is  hisself  shut  n]>  close." 

At  lenjitli,  after  waitinj;  for  more  than  half 
.111  hour,  the  noise  of  carria^^e  wheels  was 
lie.'ird,  and  a  bronKhani  appeared  driven  by 
the  porter.  He  tnrm'd  the  bron^ham  inside 
tlie  ii:\t(',  .and  t  hen  f^ett  iny;  down,  he  unlocked 
the  small  ^jate  and  advanced  to  theearriaj;(\ 
The  fellow  seemed  now  to  try  to  be  more  re- 
spectful, for  he  liad  a  hat  on  his  head  which 
lie  took  oif,  and  made  a  cliiiiisy  attempt  at 
a  bow. 

"  Hc}^  i>ardon,  miss,"  said  lie,  "  for  keepin' 
you  waitin';  but  I  had  to  pnt  the  bosses  in. 
Mr.  AVijijfins  siiysas  how  yon're  to  come  nji  in 
the  broiij^ham,  an'  your  trunks  an'  thiiif^s'll 
be  took  lip  afterward." 

"Hut  I  want  to  drive  np  in  this  coacli.  I 
can't  remove  the  liifipij^e,"  said  Edith. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  miss,"  .said  tlio 
porter.     "  I've  jjot  to  do  as  I'm  tcdd." 

At  this  Kdith  was  silent ;  but  her  ll.'isliinj; 
eyes  and  a  Hush  that  swept  over  her  pale  face 
Hhiiwed  her  indi;;nation. 

"  Ho  this  is  the  way  he  dares  to  treat  me," 
paid  she,  after  some  silence.     "  Well,"  she 


continued,  "  for  the  present  I  muHt  yield  ami 
Hiibmit  to  this  insolence.  Ibit  it  only  shows 
more  clearly  the  character  of  the  man.  I 
suppose  we  mast  ^o,"  she  continued,  lookinj; 
at  .Miss  riympton,  and  once  more  opciiiii;r 
the  coach  door  herself. 

Miss  riympton  had  been  more  a;,'itate<l 
than  ever  at  this  last  message,  and  as  Ldilh 
oiiened  the  door  she  asked  her.  bleat  hlessly, 

"  What  do  yon  mean  f  What  are  you  Co- 
llin to  do,  dear  f" 

"  I  am  Koinn  to  Dalton  Hall,"  said  Kdith, 
•  luietly.  "  We  must  j;o  in  the  hn)ii);hani,  anil 
wi'  must  ipiit  this." 

Miss  I'lympton  liesitated,  and  the  nniid, 
who  was  still  more  terrilled,  clasped  her 
hands  in  silent  ilespair.  ihil  the  porti'r,  who 
had  heard  all,  now  spoke. 

"  Hi'K  pardon,  miss,"  said  he,  "but  that 
lady  needn't  trouble  alioul  it.  It's  .Mr.  Wij;- 
jfins's  orders,  miss,  th.at  on'y  yaii  are  to  };o  to 
the  Hall  " 

"  WliJit  ihsutrer.'ible  insolence!"  exclaimed 
Miss  I'lympton.  "  What  shockinj;  and  aliom- 
inable  arro^rjince !'' 

"  I  ilo  not  regard  it  in  the  Hlijjhtest,"  said 
Kdith,  serenely.  "It  is  only  assumption  on 
his  ii.irt.  Yon  are  to  come  with  me.  If  I 
jiass  throii{j;h  that  gate  you  are  to  come  also. 
Come." 

"Oh,  my  dearcHt,  my  own  dearest  Editli, 
do  not  !^ waif !— come  back  and  let  ns  talk 
over  what  weonttht  to  do.  Let  us  see  a  law- 
yer. Let  us  wait  till  to-morrow,  and  see  if 
a  straiii^er  like  Wi^;jiins  can  refuse  admission 
to  the  mistress  of  Dalton  Hall." 

"  Heg  pardon,  mum,"  said  the  jiorter,  "  but 
Mr.  Wi;;};iiis  ain't  refusin'  admission  to  Miss 
Dalton— it'sothers  that  he  don't  want,  that's 
all.  The  lawyers  can't  do  any  thin'  agin 
that." 

"My  child,"  said  Miss  I'lympton,  "do  yon 
hear  that  f  Yon  shall  not  go.  Tiiis  man 
knows  well  what  he  can  do.  He  nnderstaiids 
all  the  worst  injustice  that  can  be  done  in  the 
name  of  law.  His  whole  life  has  been  lived 
in  the  practice  of  all  those  iiiiipiities  that 
the  law  winks  at.  Yon  see  now  at  tin'  out- 
set what  his  imrpose  is.  He  w  ill  admit  you, 
but  not  yonr  friends.  He  wishes  to  get  yon 
alone  in  his  iiowcr.  And  why  does  he  not 
come  himself?  Why  does  lie  use  sucli  aii 
agent  as  this?" 

Miss  I'lymi>ton  spoke  rapidly,  and  in  ex- 
cited tones,  but  her  excitement  did  not  ati'ect 
Edith  in  the  slightest  degree. 

"  I  think  yon  are  altogether  too  imagin.a- 
tive,"  said  slie.  "  His  orders  are  absurd.  If 
I  go  through  that  gate,  yon  shall  go  too. 
Come." 

"KdithI  Edith!  I  implore  yon, mydarling," 
cried  Miss I'lyiiijiton,  "do  not  go.  Comeback. 
It  will  not  be  long  to  wait.  Comt;  to  the  vil- 
lage till  to-morrow.  Let  us  at  least  get  the 
advice  of  a  lawyer.  The  law  can  surely  give 
an  entrance  to  the  rightful  owner." 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


fll 


iNt  yiflil  anil 
:  only  nIiowh 
llii'  iiiiiii.  I 
ikmI,  liiokiiiK 
(ire  opniiii;; 

DPf  ii;;itiil<'(l 
iimI  us  Kdith 
Iciitlili'H.sly, 
arc  yiiii  j{i)- 

'  HiiUI  Kilitti, 
(>ii^liaiii,uii<l 

i<l  tli<-  maid, 

rlas|ii'il   Imt 

I-  pdi  til',  who 

■,  "l.iit  flint 
D'sMr.  Wi;;- 
/  ari!  Ill  nt>  to 

'!"  cxclaitni'tl 
11^  aiitl  aliiiiii- 

ij;l\t('Hl,"  said 

ssiiiii|iti<iii  on 

itli  inc.     It'  I 

to  coino  also. 

cart'st  Edith, 
lid  lit  iiH  talk 

iiH  scr  a  law- 
^w,  anil  SCI!  if 

ISC  adniisKidU 

liortiT,  "  Imt 

ssimi  to  Miss 

want,  tliat'8 

tliin'  agin 

on,  "do  yon 
This  man 
nndcrstand.s 
' done  in  the 
as  Ik'cii  livid 
iliiitics  that 
at  the  ont- 
11  admit  yoii, 
I's  to  ;jet  yon 
docs  he  not 
usu  bncli  an 

■V,  and  in  cx- 
did  not  utii'ct 

too  iiuaginii- 
'  al>snrd.  If 
shall  go  too. 

,mydarlinp," 
Comeback, 
inc  to  tilt)  vil- 
lea.st  get  tin; 
11  Hniely  give 
Iff." 


IlK    DltKW    I'IKIM    IlIH    intKASr    A    LAKCiK    CI.AHI'-KNIKK. 


"  Hnt  he  doesn't  deny  an  entrance  to  me," 
said  ICdith,  "and  it'  I  go,  yon  shall  uouio  u\in), 
C'lime."' 

Miss  IMymptitn  hesitated.  She  saw  that 
IMitli  was  tnlly  ileteriniiied  to  go  to  Dalton 
Hall,  and  she.  could  not  hear  to  part  with  her. 
Hilt  at  tiie  same  time  she  was  so  terrilied  at 
the  thought  of  forcing  a  way  in  sjiitt^  of  ihe 
opposiiiiin  of  SI)  fonnidahle  a  villain  as  Wig- 
gins that  she  shrank  from  it.  Love  at  lenjith 
triumphed  over  fear,  and  she  followed  Kdith 
out  of  the  coach,  together  with  the  maid. 

Meanwhile  the  porter  had  stood  in  deep 
jierplcxity  watching  this  scene,  lint  at  length 
w  hen  Miss  I'lympton  had  reached  the  gnimiil 
and  prepared  to  follow  Kdith  ho  put  hiniM'lf 
in  front  of  them. 

"  Hcg  iiardon,  miss,"  said  he,  "  lint  its  jigin 
orders  for  them  others  to  go.  It's  on'y  yon 
that  Mr.  Wiggins  '11  let  in." 

"  Mr.  Wiggins  has  nothing  to  say  ahoiit 
the  matter,"  said  Kdith,  coldly. 

"  lint  I've  got  to  obey  order.s,''  said  the 
ntan. 

"Will  yon  pleaso  !  ♦and  aside  and  let  me 
pass  ?"  said  Kdith. 

"I  can't  let  them  otliera  in,"  .said  the  por- 
ter, doggedly.    "  Yon  may  go.'' 

".John,"  said  Kdith,  (piietly,  "I'm  sorry  to 
troiihle  yon,  Imt  yon  must  watch  this  man  ; 
and,  driver,  do  yon  stand  at  the  gate  and 
keep  it  open." 

At  this  .lohn  llting  down  his  hat  upon  the 
road,  tore  olf  his-coat  and  tossed  it  after  the 


hat,  !ind,  with  a  <'hiickle  of  soinethin;;  like 
exnllation.  ]irepared  to  obey  his  misln  ss  by 
putting  himself  in  ii  "scientilic''  atlitnde. 
He  saw  well  enough  that  the  porter  was  a 
formidable  foe,  and  his  face  was  a  diplum.'i 
in  itself  that  fully  testillcd  to  the  skill  and 
science  of  that  foe;  but  .lidiii  was  plucky, 
and  in  his  prime,  and  very  conlident  in  his 
own  poweis.  I^o.loliii  stood  olland  piipared 
for  the  fray.  On  the  other  hand,  the  porter 
was  by  no  means  at  a  loss.  As  John  |ire- 
pared  he  liackcd  slowly  toward  the  gate, 
glaring  like  ii  wild  beast  at  his  assailant. 
Hilt  .lohn  was  suddenly  interrni>ted  in  his 
movenieiits  by  the  driver. 

".•^(•e  here,  yiniiii;  mail,"  said  the  latter, 
who  had  sprnii;;  from  the  box  at  I'.ilith's  or- 
der, "do  yon  stand  by  thegiite,  an'  I'll  tickle 
that  feller  with  this  whip,  an'  see  how  he 
likes  it." 

'flic  driver  was  a   stout,  solid,  muscular 
fellow,  with   blii.'id  shoulders  ;ilid   liiili-ilog 
as|iect.     In  his  hand  he  llonrished  a  heavy 
whip,  and  as  \h;  spoke  'li.  eyes  soiiglit  out 
some  part  of  the  iiorter,-,  iierson  at  which  he 
might  take  aim.     As  he  s]ioketlie  porter  be- 
came aware  of  this  second  assailant,  and  a 
dark  and  malignant  frown  lowered  over  his 
I  evil  face.      He  slowly  drew  from  his  breast  a 
'  large  clas])-kiiife  which  was  as  forniidabh-  as 
a  dagger,  and  openi;ig  this,  he  laid  it  signili- 
I  cantly  before  him. 

Hilt  now  a  new  turn  was  given  to  the  iirog- 
rcss  of  affairs.     Had  the  porter  said  nothing. 


II /- 


22 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Miss  Plympton  might  have  ovcrconio  her 
IVars  fiir  eiioiij^h  to  accompany  Edith ;  but  his 
inenacJiig  h)okH  and  words,  and  tlies<!  prepa- 
rations for  a  struggh!,  were  too  much. 

"  Editli,  my  child,  my  dearest,  do  not !  do 
not  I  I  can  not  go ;  I  will  not.  See  these 
men  ;  they  will  kill  one  another.  John,  come 
away.  Driver,  go  V)ack  to  the  box.  Come 
away  at  one(\     IJo  yon  hear,  .John  ?" 

.John  did  hear,  and  after  some  hesitation 
conclndi^d  to  obey.  Ho  Htep])ed  biiek  from 
the  gate,  and  stood  awaiting  the  progress  of 
events.  The  driver  also  stood,  waiting  fur- 
ther ordiTH. 

"  Edith  dearest,"  said  Miss  Plynii>ton, 
"nothing  would  induce  mo  to  go  through 
thos''  gates.     You  must  not  go." 

"I'm  sure,"  said  l^ditli,  "I  sh.all  be  very 
sorry  if  you  will  not  eonu*;  but,  for  my  own 
part,  I  am  (|uite  resolved  to  go.  Don't  be 
afraid.     Come." 

Miss  Plympton  shuddered  and  shook  her 
head. 

"Well,"  said  i:dith,  "perhaps  it  will  he 
as  well  for  you  to  wait,  si-jce  you  are  so  agi- 
tated ;  and  if  you  really  will  not  come,  you 
can  drive  back  to  the  village  At  any  rate, 
I  can  set^  you  to-morrow,  and  I  will  drive 
down  for  you  the  first  thing." 

MissIMynipton  looked  mournfully  at  Edith. 

"And  you,  liichards,"  said  Edith,  looking 
at  her  maid,  "I  suppost?  it  is  no  use  for  mo 
to  ask  you.  I  see  how  it  is.  Well,  never 
mind.  1  dare  say  she  needs  you  more  than 
I  do;  ,'ind  to-morrow  will  make  all  right.  I 
see  it  only  distresses  you  for  mt^  to  i>ress  you, 
so  I  will  say  no  more.  Good- by  for  the 
l)resent." 

Edith  h(dd  out  her  liand.  Miss  Plympton 
took  it,  let  it  go,  iind  folding  Edith  in  her 
arms,  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  I'm  afraid — I'm  .'itVaid,"  said  she. 

"What  off  said  Edith. 

"About  yon,"  moaned  Miss  Plympton. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Edith.  "  I  shall  call  on 
yon  to-morrow  as  soon  as  j'ou  are  up." 

Miss  Plynii)tou  sighed. 

Edith  held  out  her  hand  to  her  maid.  Rich- 
ards, jind  kindly  b.ade  her  good-l!\  .  The  girl 
wept  bitterly,  and  could  not  speak.  It  was 
an  unusual  thing  for  E<lith  to  do,  anil  was 
j'ather  too  solemn  a  proceeding  in  view  of  a 
short  se)iaration  for  one  night,  and  this 
struck  Edith  herself.  Ihit  who  knows  what 
one  niglit  may  bring  forth? 

Editli  now  left  them,  and,  passing  through 
the  gate,  she  stood  and  waved  her  hand  at 
them.  The  porter  followed  and  shut  the 
gate.  Miss  Plym)>ton,  the  maid,  the  driver, 
and  .John  all  stood  looking  after  Edith  with 
un<'asy  fiices.  Seeing  that,  she  forced  a  smile, 
and  tinding  tnat  they  would  not  go  till  she 
hiid  gone,  she  waved  a  last  adieu  and  entered 
the  brougham.  As  she  did  so  she  heard  the 
h(dt  turn  in  the  lock  as  the  ]torter  fastened 
the  gate,  and  an  ominous  dread  aro.se  within 


her.  Was  this  a  presentiment?  Did  she  have 
a  dim  foreshadowing  of  the  future  ?  Did  she 
conjecture  how  long  it  would  he  before  she 
passed  through  that  gate  again,  and  how  and 
wherefore?  It  matters  not.  Other  thoughts 
soon  came,  and  the  i)orter  jumping  into  the 
seat,  drove  rapidly  oif. 

Edith  found  herself  carried  along  through 
lordly  avenues,  with  giant  trees,  the  growth 
of  centuries,  rising  grandly  on  eitht-rsidt!  and 
overarching  above,  and  between  which  long 
vistas  ojx'ned,  where  the  ey(!  could  tak(!  in 
wide  glades  and  slo])ing  meadows.  Some- 
times she  ciiught  sight  of  eminences  rising  in 
the  distance  covered  with  groves,  and  along 
the  slopes  herds  of  d(!er  sometimes  came 
bounding.  Finally  there  came  to  view  a 
broad  lawn,  with  a  pond  in  the  centre,  be- 
yond which  arose  a  statidy  edifice  which 
Edith  recognized  as  the  home  of  her  child- 
hood. 

It  needed  oidy  one  glance,  however,  to 
show  Edith  that  a  great  change  had  taken 
place  since  those  well-rememltered  days  of 
childhood.  Every  where  the  old  order  and 
neatness  had  disappeared,  .and  now  in  all  di- 
rections there  were  the  signs  of  carelessness 
and  neghu't.  The  once  smooth  lawn  was 
now  overgrown  with  tall  grass;  the  mai;ri." 
of  the  pond  was  filled  with  rushes,  and  it?: 
surface  with  slime  ;  some  of  the  windows  of 
the  Hall  were  out,  and  some  of  the  chimney- 
jiots  were  broken  ;  while  over  the  road  grass 
hail  been  Jillowed  to  grow  in  many  places. 
Edith  recognized  all  this,  and  an  involuntary 
sigh  esca])ed  her.  The  carriage  at  length 
sto|)ped,  and  she  got  out  and  ascended  the 
steps  to  the  door  of  the  house. 

The  door  was  open,  and  an  ungainly-look- 
ing neuro  servant  was  standing  in  the  hall. 

"Who  has  .'hargi^  of  this  house?"  asked 
Edith.     "  Is  there  a  housekeeper?" 

The  servant  grinned. 

"  Housekeepa, miss?  Yes,  mis.s, dar's Missa 
Dunbar." 

"Call  the  liousekei'iier,  then,"  said  Edith, 
"  at\d  tell  her  that  I  am  waiting  for  her  in 
the  drawing-i'oom." 

The  servant  went  otf,  and  Edith  then  en- 
tered the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Tin;   STUAXl.I':    INMATICS   ok    DA'-TOX    HAM,. 

In  that  well-remembered  drawing-room 
there  was  much  that  renewed  the,  long  ])ast 
grief  of  childhood,  and  nothing  whatever  to 
soothe  the  sorrow  of  the  ]iresent.  Looking 
around,  Edith  found  many  things  the  same 
as  she  once  remembered  them;  but  still 
there  were  great  changes  —  changes,  too, 
which  were  of  the  same  miture  as  those 
which  she  had  noticed  outside.  Every 
thing    showed    traces   of   carelessness    and 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


23 


)i(l  h\w  liavo 

0  f    Ditl  .-^ho 

iiid  liow  iiud 
icrthonf^lits 
iiig  iuto  the 

)iig  throuj;h 
,  tho  fifowth 
licisidt'  antl 

1  which  h)ni; 
>uld  tiiki!  in 
i}\V8.  Somc- 
icearisiii«  in 
I's,  and  ah)ng 
etinics  canio 
(!  to  view  a 
le  ct'iitn'.  he- 
•diiicc  which 
of  hor  chihl- 

however,  to 

;;('  had  taken 
icrcd  (hiys  <>t" 
.)ld  onhT  and 
now  in  all  tU- 
f  carelessness 
th  lawn  wart 
^;  tho  niai.ti!' 
hhIich,  and  it^ 
le  windows  of 
'the  chimney- 
the  road  grass 

many  i)la<-es. 
n  involuntary 
ige  at  length 

ascended  tho 

igainly-look- 

in  the  hall. 

ouse?"  asked 

iaSjdar'sMissa 

said  Edith, 
ig  for  her  in 

,dith  then  cn- 


.\T,TO\    HALL. 

drawing-room 
the  long  Itast 
r  whatever  to 
it.  Looking 
iigs  tho  same 
m;  hut  still 
changes,  too, 
hin*  as  those 
side.  Every 
elessness    and 


long  neglect.  Tho  seats  of  manj-  of  tho  '  so  soon,"  said  she  at  length ;  "  and  I  can  not 
handsome,  richly  carved  chairs  wen^  ruined,  tell  yon  how  I  regret  what  has  ha])pened. 
Costly  vases  had  disai)|>eared.  Dnst  eov-  It  was  too  hard  for  you.  Hut  we  were  tak(!U 
ered  every  thing.  Books  .iiid  ornaments  hy  surprLse.  I  entreat  you  not  to  suppose 
which  lay  around  wore  soiled  and  spoiled. ;  that  any  thing  ^mt  kindness  was  intended." 
In  that  ai)p!iri!ntly  deserted  lionse  thens  |  Edith  looked  now  at  Mrs.  Dunhar  with  an 
seemed  to  have  heen  no  oiio  for  years  who!  earnest  scrutiny  that  was  fully  equal  to  the 
cared  to  pn-serve  the  original  grace  and  ele-  searching  gaze  of  the  former.  Mrs.  Dunhar's 
ganco  of  its  decorations.  Hut  Edith  did  not  tone  was  cordial  and  lady-like,  hut  Edith 
have  a  very  long  time  to  give  to  her  survey  felt  re]nignance  at  her  use  of  the  word  "  we.'' 
of  this  room,  for  in  a  few  minutes  she  heard  Hy  that  little  word  she  at  once  identitied 
tho  rustle  of  a  dress,  and,  turning,  she  saw  ;  herself  Avith  Wiggins,  and  nuide  herself  in 
a  woman  approaching  who  was  evidently  part  resi)onsihle  for  tho  scene  at  the  gate, 
the  hou.sekeeper.  j      "Kindness,'  said  she,  "is  a  strang((  word 

Edith  was  ])repared  to  see  .some  woman  to  use  in  ccumection  with  that  scene,  when 
who  might  Ix;  in  keeping  with  these  (h'so-  I  foniul  myself  forced  to  p.'irt  with  the  only 
late  surroundings  and  with  the  rufhun  porter  mother  that  I  have  known  since  my  own 
at  the  gate — some  coarse?,  insolent  female;    mamma  *lie<l." 

and  she  ha<l  also  prepai  '  herself  to  eneoun-  \  Mrs.  Dunhar  looked  at  her  in  silence,  and 
ter  any  rudeness  witii  iortitude.  Ihit  the  there  came  over  her  face  a  strange,  patient 
lirst  sight  of  Mrs.  Dunhar  was   enough  to    expression    that    at   any  other   time   W(mld 


show  her  that  her  anticipations  wero  C(mi- 
jiletely  unfounded, 


have   excited   Edith's  symi)athy  and   pity. 
Some  rejdy  seeme<l  to  rise  to  her  lips,  hut  if 


Slu?  was  a  woman  who  might  have  heen    it  was  so,  it  was  instantly  checked ;  and  aft- 
•ahont  lifty,  and  even  older.     The  outline  of  !  er  a  moment's  hesitation  she  said,  in  a  low 


hor  features  showed  marks  of  former  heanty, 
and  the  general  air  of  In-r  face  was  .alto- 
gether ahove  the  rank  of  a  Innisehold  do- 
mestic. The  expressioti  was  one  of  calm, 
strong  self-control,  of  dignity,  and  of  ri'S(du- 
tion;  at  the  same  time  there  was  in  her 
dark,  earnest  eye.s   a  certain   vigilant  out- 


voice, 

"  It  is  cheerless  in  this  room.  If  yon  will 
com<!  v,  itli  mo  I  will  take  you  where  yon 
can  he  more  comfortahle." 

Sa..ing  this,  she  led  the  way  out,  and  Edith 
followed,  feeling  a  little  perplexed  at  Mrs. 
Dunhar's  manner,  and  trying  to  understan<l 


look,  as  of  ono  who  is  on  ginird  at  all  times;  [  how  it  was  that  she  was  so  identified  with 
and  her  gaze  .as  she  (ixed  it  upon  Edith  was  Wiggins.  She  tliouglit  she  could  see  an  ev- 
o'le  of  searching,  eager,  yet  most  cautions  \  ident  kindliness  toward  herscU',  liut  how 
and  wary  examination.  On  the  whole,  this  that  could  (^(x'xist  with  the  treatment  whicii 
woman  excited  some  surprise?  in  Edith;  and  she  had  received  at  the  gates  was  rather  a 
while  she  was  grutitied  at  fiiuling  in  her  one  '  puzzle. 

who  was  not  out  of  the  reach  of  respect,  she  j  Mrs.  Dunhar  led  the  way  up  to  the  second 
yet  was  i)er]>lexed  !it  tho  calm  and  searching  story,  and  along  a  corridor  toward  the  right 
scrutiny  of  which  she  was  the  ohjeet.  Hot  ]  wing.  Mere  she  came  to  a  room  in  tlu'  front 
she  did  not  now  take  any  time  to  think  |  of  the  house  wliicli  looked  out  njion  tlu- i)ark, 
ahont  this.     A  vague  idea  occnrri'd  to  her  j  and  connuanded  an  extensive  view.     There 


that  Mrs.  Dunhar,  lik(?  many  other  house- 
keepers, was  OIU1  of  that  nunu'rous  class 
who  "have  seen  hotter  days;"  so,  .after  the 
first  look,  she  felt  snilieiently  satistied,  and 
advancing  a  stej)  or  two  to  meet  her,  she 
frankly  held  out  Iu>r  hand. 

The  housekeeper  took  it.  ami  said,  simply, 
"W<'leome  to  Dalton  Hall." 

"Thank  you,"  saiil  Eilith.  "  If  I  had  met 
you  hffore,  I  might  have  lieeu  sjiared  some 
Innniliation.  Hut  I  need  not  talk  of  that. 
I  am  very  tired  and  very  faint.  I  have  trav- 
eled all  day,  and  have  met  with  gross  insult 
at  my  own  gate.  1  want  food  and  rest. 
Will  yon  have  tlie  kindness,  then,  to  take  me 
to  my  own  room  at  once,  and  then  get  me  a 
cup  of  tea  ?" 

Mrs.  Dunhar  had  not  removeil  her  earnest 
eyes  from  Editii;  and  even  after  she  had 
ceased  s]>eaking  she  >  till  look.-d  at  her  for  a 
few  moments  in  tho  same  way  without  an- 
swering. 

"  Wo  did  not  know  that  vou  were  coming 


was  !i  well-furnished  Jx'droom  otf  this  room, 
to  which  Mis.  Dunhar  at  once  led  her. 

''  If  w<'  had  only  received  notice  that  you 
were  coming,"  said  she,  "  you  woid<l  have 
mi't  with  a  hetter  reception." 

Edith  said  nothing,  for  oiiee  more  the 
word  "  we"  jarretl  nn]deasaiiily  iiixui  her. 

"Shall  you  have  any  olijection  to  occupy 
this  room  for  to-night  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Dunhar. 

"Th.'iidc  you,"  said  Edith,  "noiu;  what- 
ever; hilt  I  should  like  very  much  to  have 
mv   luggage.      It    was  taken   hack    to    Dal- 

t(UI." 

"Taken  hack?" 

"Yes.  Miss  Plympton  was  not  admitted, 
and  my  luggjige  was  on  the  coach." 

Mrs.  Dunhar  made  no  reply  for  some  mo- 
ments. 

"I  should  feel  much  ohligeil  if  yon  would 
sinid  one  of  the  servants  to  fetch  it,"  said 
Edith. 

"  1  don't  se(!  why  not,"  sai<l  Mrs.  Dunhar, 
in  a  hesitating  voice. 


24 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


•i! 


"And  have  you  any  writing  inatcrialH ?" 
asked  Edilli.  "I  should  lilie  to  wfud  a  few 
liiu'H  to  Miss  I'lynipton." 

Mrs.  Dunbar  loolitul  at  licr  with  onc^  of 
those  strauf^o,  searcliiufi  <;lauc'i's  iiceuliar  to 
her,  and  after  souic  hesitation  said,  "I  will 
look." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Edith,  and  turned 
away.  Mrs.  Dunhar  tin  u  left  her,  and  did 
not  return  for  some  time.  At  len;;th  she 
made  her  aiipearanco,  followed  by  the  black 
servant,  who  carrie<l  a  tray.  A  table  was 
laid  in  the  outer  room,  and  a  bountiful  re- 
past spread  then!.  Edith  <lid  not  eat  much, 
however.  SIk?  sat  siiipiiifr  a  cu|i  of  ten,  and 
thinking  protoundly,  while  Mrs.  ])un1>ar 
took  a  seat  a  little  on  one  side,  so  as  to  be  : 
unobserved,  from  which  jiosition  she  watch- 
ed Edith  most  closely.  It  was  as  though  she 
was  stuilying  the  character  of  this  young 
girl  so  as  to  see  what  its  promise  might  be. 
And  if  Jf's.  Dunbar  had  any  knowledgt>  of 
the  \vorl(  ,  one  thing  must  have  be<'ii  plainly 
manifest  to  her  in  that  examination,  and 
that  was  that  this  young  girl  was  not  to  bo 
managed  or  controlled  after  the  fashion  of  J 
most  of  her  kind,  but  wouhi  reiiuire  very  ' 
dillicnlt  and  very  ])eeuliar  treatment  if  she 
were  to  be  i)ent  to  the  will  of  others.  Mrs. 
Dunbar  seenu'd  to  recognize  this,  ami  the 
discovery  seemed  to  create  distress,  for  a  , 
heavy  sigh  eseapeil  lier. 

Till'  sigh  roused  Edith.  She  at  once  rose 
from  her  scat  and  turned  round. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  l)nnbar."  said  she,  ''if 
you  will  let  me  have  the  writing  materials 
I  will  senil  a  few  lines  to  poor  Miss  I'lynip- 
ton." I 

Mrs.  Dunbar  at  once  arose,  ;iiid  going  out 
of  the  room,  returned  in  a  few  niinnlcs  with 
a  desk,  wliieli  she  laid  upon  another  tabic. 
Edith  at  once  seated  herself  to  write,  and 
whil(!  the  black  servant  wiis  removing  the 
things  she  hurriedly  wrote  the  following:      i 

"Pai.ton  IIaix. 
"My  DAiii.iNTr  AfNTiK, — I  write  at  once 
because  1  know  you  will  lie  devoured  with 
anxiety,  ami  will  not  sleep  to-niglit   unless 
you  hear  from  me.     You  will  l)e  dilighted  to 
learn,  then,  that  I  am  safe  and  unharmed.  . 
The  man  Wiggins  lias  not  yet  made  his  aji-  ' 
])carance,  but  I  hoiie  to  see  him  this  evening. 
The  Hall  looks  familiar,  but  tlcsolatc,  except 
in  tlie  room  where  I  now  am  writing,  where 
I  liiid  sul'licient  comlbrt  to  satisfy  me.     I  am 
too  much  fatigued  to  writ<'  any  more,  niu-  is 


For  some  time  Edith  sat  involved  in 
thought.  She  had  written  cheerfully  enough 
to  Miss  Plymptoii,  but  that  was  from  a  kind- 
ly desire  to  reassure  her.  In  reality,  she  was 
overwhelmed  with  lomdiness  and  melan- 
choly. Tin*  asjiect  of  the  grounds  below  and 
of  tli(>  drawing-room  had  struck  a  chill  to  her 
heart.  This  great  drear  house  o|)]ue,ssed  her, 
and  the  melancholy  with  which  she  had  left 
I'lynipton  Terrace  now  becanit!  intensilied. 
The  gloom  that  had  overwhelmed  her  fa- 
ther seemed  to  rest  upon  her  father's  house, 
and  (h'scended  thence  uiioii  her  own  sjtirit, 
strong  and  brave  though  it  was. 

In  the  midst  of  her  melancholy  thoughts 
she  was  startled  at  the  sound  of  a  low  sigh 
iinmedi.'itely  liehind  her.  She  turned  hast- 
ily, and  saw  a  man  standing  there,  who  had 
entered  the  room  so  silently  that,  in  her  ab- 
straction, she  had  not  heard  him.  He  was 
now  standing  aliout  half-way  Ix'tweeii  her 
and  the  dour,  and  his  eyes  were  lixeii  n])on 
her  with  S(miething  of  that  same  earnest 
scrutiny  wliicli  she  had  already  observed  in 
the  gaze  of  Mrs,  Dunbar.  One  glance  at  this 
man  was  sullieient  to  show  her  that  it  was 
no  servant,  and  that  it  could  be  no  other  than 
Wiggins  hiiuseU".  He  was  not  a  man,  how- 
ever, who  could  be  dismissed  with  a  glance. 
There  was  something  in  him  which  ecunpidled 
a  iurther  survey,  and  Edith  found  herself 
tilled  with  a  certain  indcliiialde  wonder  as 
she  look<'d  at  him.  His  eyes  were  lixed  on 
her;  her  eyes  were  fixed  «.n  him;  and  they 
both  looked  upon  each  other  in  silence. 

He  was  a  man  who  might  once  have  been 
tall,  lint  now  was  stooping  so  that  his  origi- 
nal height  was  ccnicealed.  He  was  plainly 
dressed,  and  his  coat  of  some  thin  black  stuff 
hung  loosely  about  him.  He  wore  slijijiers, 
which  served  to  account  for  his  noiseless  en- 
trance. Vet  it  was  not  things  like  these  that 
Edith  noticed  at  that  time,  but  rather  the 
face  that  now  apjieared  before  her. 

It  was  a  face  which  is  <uily  met  with  once 
in  a  lifetime — a  face  which  had  such  an  ex- 
jircssion  that  the  beholder  could  only  feel 
iiallled.  It  was  the  face  of  one  who  might 
lie  the  oldest  of  men,  so  snow-white  was  the 
hair,  so  deej)  were  the  lines  that  were  graven 
upon  it.  His clieek-bones were iironiineiit, his 
mouth  was  concealed  by  a  huge  gray  mus- 
tache, and  his  cheeks  were  sunken,  while 
his  forehead  projected,  ami  was  fringed  with 
heavy  eyebrows,  from  behind  which  his  dark 
eyesglowed  with  a  scut  olgloomy  lustre  from 
caxfrnous  depths.  Over  his  whole  face  there 
it  necessary,  as  I  intend  to  call  on  you  as  was  one  pervading  expression  that  was  more 
early  as  jiossible  to-morrow  moi'iiing.  I'util  than  despondency,  and  near  akin  to  despair, 
then  good-by,  and  don't  be  foolishly  anxious  It  was  the  i'Xi>ression  of  a  man  whose  life 
about  vour  own  Edith,"        had  been  a  series  of  disheartening  failures, 

I  or  of  one  who  had  sinned  dei']dy,  or  of  (uio 

This  note   I'.dith   folded   .'iiid  directed  to  !  who  had   sulVcred   unusual   and    protiacteil 

"Miss  riymiiloii,  Dal  I  on."    After  which  she    anguish  of  soul,  or  of  one  who  has  lieeii  huig 

handed  it  to  Mrs.  Dunbar,  who  toidv  it  in  si-  I  a  jtrcy  to  th.at  form  of  madness  which  takes 


leuco  and  left  the  room. 


the  form  of  melancholy.    So  this  might  mean 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


a  rniiiiMl  life,  or  it  nii-^lit  mean  tikkIih'ss,  or' 
it  inij^lit  lie  tile  ,staiii|i  ot"  sorriiw,  or  it  iiii^jlit 
1)0  tln'  liainlwritiiif?  of  iciiiorsf.  Whatcvi-r 
it  was  coiilil  not  fcrtaiiily  lie  fiatluTcd  from 
one  survey,  or  from  many,  nor,  imlicd,  conld 
it  lie  known  for  certain  at  all  without  liiis 
man's  confi'ssioii.  i 

For  in  additioti  to  this  mysterious  exiires-  ' 
sioii  tliere  WHS  anotlier,  wliieh  was  comliined 
with  it  so  I'losely  tlnit  it  seemed  to  liirow 
conjecture  still  further  otV  tho  truck  and  he- 
wiMir  the  ya/cr.  Thi.s  was  a  certain  air  of 
It.itient  and  incessant  vigilance,  a  look-out 
npoM  the  world  as  from  heliind  an  outpost 
of  (lanf;er,  the  hunted  look  of  the  criminal 
who  t'ears  detecti(m,  or  the  ncvei-endinj^ 
■walihfulm  ss  of  the  niwasy  conscience. 

All  this  Edith  coidd  not  help  weeinfj;,  and 
fihe  leathered  this  j;em'ral  result  frmn  hei'  sui'- 
vey  of  that  face.  tin. n;;li  at  that  time  she  could 
not  put  her  conclusion  in  words.  It  seemed 
to  her  to  !)('  remorse  whi<h  she  saw  tlu're, 
ftutl  the  nnmifestations  of  a  stri<'ken  con- 
Hciencp.  It  was  the  crindmil  who  feared 
ilutectioii,  the  wrong-doer  on  the  constant 


look-out  for  discovery  —  a  criminal  most 
veneralde,  a  wr(Ui;;-doer  who  must  have 
sntVered;  l)nt  if  a  criminal,  one  of  dark  ami 
bitter  menutries,  ami  ono  whose  th(ui<rhts, 
reachiiif^  over  the  years,  must  have  liccn  as 
^floomy  as  death. 

And  this  was  WiuoinsI 

Not  the  Mcphistopiieles  which  she  had  im- 
a;,Mned  ;  not  the  evil  nioikin;;  lieiul  ;  liiit  om' 

rather  who  orijiinally  had  not  1 n  without 

good  instincts,  and  who  might  have  liecomo 
n  virtuous  nnin  had  fate  not  ]uevcnted.  It 
w.'is  not  the  leering,  sneering  templi'r  that 
she  saw,  liul  rather  some  representation  of 
that  archangel  ruined,  for  it  was  as  though 
"his  Imow  dee))  scjirs  of  thunder  hatl  in- 
trenched, and  care  sat  on  his  faded  cheek.'' 

At  lirst  the  wonnin's  heart  of  Edith  inado 
itself  felt,  and  she  jiitied  him;  hut  (|ni<'kly 
the  daughter's  heart  spoke,  and  it  denounced 
him.  If  this  man  lelt  remorse,  it  could  oidy 
he  for  c)ne  great  crime,  !ind  what  crime  was 
so  great  as  that  of  the  hetrayal  of  Frederick 
DaltcmT  W;is  it  this  that  ii.nl  crushed  the 
traitor?   Thou";htN  like  these  Hashed  throu";h 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


her  mind,  and  her  glance,  wliich  at  first  had 
softened  from  comniiHeration,  now  j;re\v  Htern 
and  cold  and  hard ;  and  the  fixed,  eajjer  look 
wliich  came  to  her  from  those  gloomy  and 
mournful  eyes  was  returned  by  one  which 
■was  hard  and  ])itiles8  and  repellent.  IJack 
to  her  heart  came  that  feeling  which  for  a 
moment  had  faltered :  the  old  hate,  nourishe<l 
through  her  lifetime,  and  nnignified  during 
the  last  few  days  to  all-absorliing  propor- 
tions: th(!  strongest  feeling  of  her  nature, 
the  hate  of  th(^  c^neniy  of  herself  and  the  de- 
stroyer of  her  father. 

^Viggins,  on  his  part,  with  his  quick,  vigi- 
lant eyes,  did  not  fail  to  mark  at  once  tiie 
change  that  hatl  come  over  Kditli.  He  saw 
the  first  glance  of  pity,  and  then  the  transi- 
tion to  coldness  dee])ening  into  hate.  Until 
then  there  had  seemed  a  spell  upon  him  which 
fixed  his  gaze  on  Edith,  liut  now  tliesp»!ll  was  j 
suddenly  broken.  He  removed  his  gaze,  and  ' 
then,  taking  a  chair,  he  sat  upo)i  it,  and  for 
a  few  moments  remained  with  his  eyes  lixed 
on  the  lloor. 

At  last  he  raised  his  heail,  and,  looking 
fixedly  at  Kdith,  began  to  speak,  and  spoke 
in  a  strange,  low,  measured  tone,  with  fre- 
quent hesitations;  in  a  way  also  that  gave 
the  idea  of  one  who,  for  some  cause  or  other, 
was  putting  a  strong  constraint  upon  him- 
self, and  only  speaking  by  an  eti'ort. 

'•  I  regret,  very  dee])ly,"  said  he,  "  that  you 
were  treated  with  rudeness.  Had  I  known 
that  yon  would  come  so  soon,  I  should  have 
notified  the — the  porter.  Hut  he — he  nteant 
uo  harm.     H;'  is  very  faithful — to  orders." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  said  Kdith,  "  that  it 
was  not  the  rudeness  of  the  porter  that  was 
otiensive,  but  rather  the  rudeness  of  your- 
self." 

Wiggins  started. 

"  Of  myself  ?"  In^  repeated.  | 

"Certainly."  said  Edith;  "in  refusing  to 
admit  one  who  is  my  dearest  friend  on 
earth." 

Wiggins  drew  a  long  breath,  and  looked 
troubled. 

"  It  was  distressing  to  me,"  said  he  at 
length;  "but  it  could  not  be." 

At  tills,  Edith  felt  inexpressibly  galled, 
but  for  the  time  restrained  herself. 

"  I'erliaps  you  would  have  been  pleased," 
said  she,  "  if  1  had  gone  away  with  her." 

"Oh  no,"  saitl  Wiggins,  dreamilv — "oh 
uo." 

"  I  thought  for  a  time  of  doing  so,"  said 
Edith  ;  "and  in  that  ease  I  should  have  come  I 
to-nuirrow,  or  as  soon  as  jiossible,  with  the  of- 
ficers of  the  law,  to  re])ly  to  your  orders." 

At  this  Wiggins  looked  at  her  witli  a 
strange  and  solemn  glance,  which  puzzled 
Edith. 

"  You  W(uild  have  regretted  it,"  said  he, 
"  oventually." 

"  Few  woidd  have  done  as  I  did,"  said 
Edith,  "  in  coming  here  aU)ne." 


"  Yon  did  right,"  said  Wiggins. 

"At  the  same  time,"  said  Edith,  firmly, 
"  if  I  have  forborne  once,  I  assure  you  I  shall 
not  do  so  again.  You  are  in  a  wrong  course 
altogether.  I  shall  put  an  end  to  this  at 
once.  And  I  tell  you  now  that  this  \thu:v 
unist  be  ma<le  ready  for  Miss  I'lympton  to- 
morrow. I  will  have  that  brutal  porter  dis- 
missed at  once.  Ak  to  yourself  and  the  liouse- 
keei)er,  I  need  say  nothing  just  now." 

If  it  had  been  possible  for  that  gray  face 
to  have  turned  giayer  or  i)aler,  it  wotdd 
have  done  so  as  Edith  utteriMl  these  words. 
Wiggins  fixed  his  solenni  eyes  on  her,  and 
their  glance  had  something  in  it  which  was 
almost  awful.  After  a  moment  li<>  slowly 
passed  his  thin  hand  over  his  brow,  frowned, 
and  looked  away.  Then  ho  murmured,  in  a 
low  voice,  as  if  to  himself, 

"The  girl's  mad!" 

Edith  heard  these  words,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment thought  that  Wiggins  himself  must  Ik* 
mad  ;  but  his  calmness  and  cold  constraint 
looked  too  much  liktf  sober  sense.  She  her- 
self had  her  own  dark  and  gloomy  feelings, 
and  these  glowed  in  her  heart  with  a  fervid 
fire — too  fervid,  indeed,  to  admit  of  utter- 
ance. She  too  had  to  put  upon  herself  a 
constraint  to  kee])  back  the  words,  glowing 
with  hot  wrath  and  fervid  indignation,  which 
she  could  have  Hung  upon  her  father's  be- 
trayer. But  because  words  were  weak,  and 
beeau.se  such  deeds  as  Lis  had  to  be  repaid 
by  act  and  in  kind,  she  forbo;,- 

"  It  is  necessary,''  said  Wiggins  at  length, 
"to  live  here  in  seclusion  for  a  time.  You 
will  gradually  become  accustomed  to  il.and 
it  will  be  all  for  the  best.  It  may  not  be  for 
so  very  long,  after  all  -perhaps  not  more 
than  one  year.  Perliii])s  you  nuiy  eventual- 
ly be  admitted  to — to  our  i)ur|>oses." 

"This,"  said  Edith,  "is  childish.  What 
you  mean  I  do  not  know,  nor  do  I  can^  to. 
You  seem  to  hint  at  seclusitui.  1  do  not  feel 
inclined  for  society,  but  a  seclusion  of  your 
nndiing  is  not  to  my  taste.  Yon  nnist  your- 
self go  elsewhen'  to  seek  this  seclusion. 
This  is  mine,  and  here  I  intend  to  bring  the 
friends  whom  I  wish  to  have  with  me.  I 
can  only  regard  your  present  course  as  the 
net  of  a  thoroughly  infatuated  num.  You 
have  had  things  all  your  own  way  thus  far, 
and  seem  to  have  come  to  regard  this  ]ilaee 
as  yours,  and  never  to  have  counted  upon 
any  thing  but  acquiescence  on  my  part  in 
your  ])laiis." 

Wiggins  fastened  his  solemn  eyes  upon 
her,  and  imirmured, 

"  True." 

"It  is  useless,  therefore,"  said  Edith,  loft- 
ily, "for  you  to  make  any  op])osition.  It 
will  only  be  foolisii,and  you  will  ultimately 
be  ruined  by  it.'' 

Wiggins  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  It  is  only  a  waste  of  lime,"  said  he.  "I 
confess  von  are  dill'erent  from  what  I  antiei- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


97 


m  eyos  iiiioii 


pated.  You  do  not  know.  You  can  not  nn- 
(lorstand.  You  arc  too  rasli  and  Hclf-fonti- 
dont.  I  can  not  tell  you  what  my  plans 
are;  I  can  only  tell  you  my  wiHlies." 

Edith  rose  to  her  feet,  au<l  stood  opposite, 
with  her  largo  eyes  H»niing  from  her  white 
face. 

"This  insolence,"  said  she,  "  has  lasted 
too  long.  It  is  you  who  nnist  obey  nu> — not 
I  you.  You  si)eak  ad  tho',:.';')  there  were  no 
such  thing  MS  law." 

"I  said  nothing  ahout  obedience,"  said 
Wiggins,  in  a  nionniful  voice,  which,  in  spite 
of  litTsi'lf.  all'ected  Edith  very  strangely.  "I 
spoke  of  plans  which  could  not  be  commu- 
uicated  to  you  yet.  and  of  my  wishes." 

"  lint  I,"  said  Edith,  mildfy,  "  wish  you  to 
understand  that  I  have  my  own  wishes.  You 
make  use  of  a  tone  which  I  can  not  tolerate 
for  a  moment.  I  have  only  one  thing  more 
to  say,  and  that  is  to  repeat  my  fonner  di- 
rection. I  mimt  have  Miss  I'lynii)ton  here  to- 
morrow, and  i)reparations  for  her  must  be 
maile.  Once  for  all,  you  must  understand 
that  Ix^tween  you  and  me  there  is  absolutely 
nothing  in  common  ;  and  I  tell  you  now  that 
it  is  my  intention  to  dispense  with  your 
services  at  the  earliest  possil)le  date.  I  will 
not  detain  you  any  longer." 

Saying  this,  she  waved  her  liaiul  toward 
the  door,  and  then  resumed  her  seat. 

As  for  Wiggins,  hi'  looked  at  her  with  his 
usual  solemn  gaze  during  these  remarks. 
His  bowed  form  seemed  to  be  lieut  more  as 
he  listened  to  her  words.  Wlicn  she  ceased 
and  sat  down  ho  stood  listening  still,  as 
though  he  heard  some  echo  to  her  words. 
Edith  did  not  look  up,  but  turned  lier  eyes 
in  another  direction,  and  so  did  not  see  the 
face  that  was  still  turned  toward  her.  Hut 
if  she  had  looked  there  she  would  hav(>  seen 
a  lace  wliich  bore  a  deeper  impress  than 
ever  of  utter  woe. 

In  a  few  moments  he  turned  and  left  the 
room,  as  silently  as  he  canu'. 

l?efon>  retiring  that  night  Edith  calh'd 
Mrs.  Dnnliar,  and  gave  her  sonn-  directions 
aliont  jireparing  another  bedroom  and  the 
drawing-room.  To  her  orders,  which  were 
somewhat  ]M)sitive,  Mrs.  Dunbar  listened  in 
silence,  and  merely  bowed  in  reply. 

After  which  Edith  retired,  weary  and 
worn  out,  and  troubled  in  many  ways. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WAI.I.ED   IN. 

Vf.ky  early  on  the  following  day  Edith 
arose,  and  found  Mrs.  I)iinbar  already  mov- 
ing about.  She  remarked  tliat  she  had 
heard  Edith  dressing  herself,  and  had  pre- 
l)ared  a  l)reakfast  for  her.  This  little  mark 
of  attenriiui  was  very  grateful  to  Edith,  who 
thanked  Jlrs.  Dunbar  (piite  earnestly,  and 


"sue  saw  thk  hlack  skuvant,  ult.o." 

found  the  repast  a  refreshing  one.  After 
this,  as  it  was  yet  too  early  to  think  of  call- 
ing on  Mi.ss  I'lymptou,  she  wandered  about 
the  house.  The  old  nooks  and  corners  dear 
to  nu'inory  wens  visited  once  more.  Famil- 
iar sceiu's  came  back  before  her.  Here  was 
the  nursery,  there  her  mother's  room,  in  an- 
other jdace  tilt!  library.  There,  too,  was  the 
great  hall  up  stairs,  with  j)ictures  on  each 
sidi!  of  ancestors  who  went  back  to  the  days 
of  till!  I'lantagenets.  There  wen;  etligies  in 
armor  of  knights  who  had  fought  in  tho 
Crusades  and  in  the  Wars  of  the  Ho.ses ;  of 
ciivaliers  who  had  fought  for  King  Charles; 
of  gallant  gentlemen  who  had  f(dloweil  tluur 
country's  tlag  under  the  burning  siiu  of  In- 
dia, over  tho  sierras  of  Spain,  and  in  tho 
wilderness  of  America.  And  of  all  these 
she  was  the  last,  and  all  that  ancestral  glory 
was  bound  up  in  her,  a  weak  and  fragile 
girl.  I)ee]dy  she  regretted  at  that  moment 
that  slu'  was  not  a  man,  so  that  she  might 
confer  new  lustre  ui)on  so  exalted  a  liiu'age. 
As  she  wandered  throuy;h  the  rooms  and 
g.alleries  all  her  childhood  came  back  licfore 
'  her.  iSlie  recalled  her  mother,  hci-  foiid  love, 
!  and  her  early  death.  That  mother's  jiicture 
!  hung  in  the  great  hall,  and  she  gazed  at  it 
long  and  j)ensively,  recalling  that  nolde  face, 
which  in  her  rememl)rance  was  always  soft- 
ened by  thi>  sweet  expression  of  tenderest 
love.  ]{nt  it  was  here  that  something  met 
her  eyes  which  in  a  moment  <hased  a'-ay 
every  regretful  thought  and  sot'ter  feeling, 
and  brought  back  in  fresh  veh^'inence  the 
strong  glow  of  her  grief  and  indignation. 
Turning  away  from  \wr  mother's  portrait  by 
a  mitural  impulse  to  look  for  that  of  her 
^  father,  she  was  at  first  unable  to  tiiid  it.  At 
length,  at  the  end  of  the  line  <d'  Dalton  ])or- 
traits,  she  noticed  what  at  tiist  she  had  sup- 
posed to  be  jiart  of  the  wall  out  of  re]iair. 
Another  glance,  however,  showed  that  it 
'  was  the  ba<'k  of  a  picture.  In  a  moment 
i  she    understood    it.      It    was    her    father's 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


portrait,  and  the  faco  Lad  been  turned  to 
tht!  wall. 

Stinif?  by  a  sonso  of  intolerable  insnlt,  her 
facte  IliiHlied  erinison,  and  ulie  remained  for  a 
few  niomeiits  rooted  to  the  Hjiot  ularinfj  at 
the  iiietnre.  Who  had  dared  to  do  this — to 
heap  iiiHiilt  ni)on  that  innocent  and  Hutfering 
head,  to  \vronn  ho  fonlly  the  nu-niory  of  tin- 
dead  ?  ]  ler  (irst  iinpnlHe  was  to  tear  it  down 
with  her  own  hands,  and  replace  it  in  its 
l)roper  position ;  her  next  to  seek  out  Wif^- 
^ins  at  onee  and  denounce  him  to  his  fact! 
for  all  his  perlidy,  of  which  this  was  the  lit- 
tinj;  climax.  Hut  a  more  sobta'  thou<;ht  fol- 
lowed—the tliouj;ht  of  her  own  wcakii(>«s. 
What  coidd  her  words  avail  a;;ainst  a  man 
lik(!  that?  Hetter  far  would  it  be  for  her  to 
■wait  until  she  could  expel  the  usurper,  and 
tak(s  her  own  place  as  acknowled^red  mis- 
tress in  Dalton  Hall.  This  tliou;;lit  made 
her  calmer,  and  she,  rellected  that  she  need 
not  wait  very  lonjj;.  This  day  would  de- 
cide it  all,  and  this  very  niyht  her  father's 
portrait  should  bo  placed  in  its  riyht  posi- 
tion. 

This  incident  destroyed  all  relish  for  fur- 
ther wanderinj;  about  the  house,  and  tliouj;h 
it  was  yet  early,  she  determined  to  set  out 
at  once  for  the.  villaj^e  and  find  Miss  I'lymp- 
fon.  With  this  desi;;n  she  descended  lo  the 
lower  hall,  and  saw  tliere  the  same  black 
servant  whom  slut  had  seen  the  day  before. 

"  What  is  your  name  V  she  asked. 

"Hugo,"  said  the  black,  with  his  usual 
grin. 

"Well,  Hugo,"  said  she,  "I  want  the 
brougham.  (Jo  to  the  stiibles,  have  the 
horses  put  in,  and  come  back  as  soon  as 
you  can.  And  here  is  something  for  your 
trouble." 

S;iyiug  this,  she  proffered  him  a  soveniign. 

Ibit  the  black  did  not  appear  to  see  it. 
He  sim|>ly  said,  "  Yes.  ndss,"  and  turned 
away.  Edith  was  s'.irjjrised ;  but  thinking 
that  it  w;iH  merely  his  stupidity,  she  went 
up  stairs  ami  waited  patiently  tor  a  long 
tinm.  But,  in  sjiite  of  lu-r  waiting,  there 
were  no  signs  of  any  carringe;  and  at 
length,  growing  impatient,  she  deternuned 
to  go  to  the  stilldes  herself.  She  knew  Ihi^ 
way  there  perfectly  well,  ami  soon  reached 
the  i)laco.  To  her  surjjrise  ami  vexation, 
the  docu's  were  locked,  and  there  were  no 
signs  whatever  of  Hugo. 

"The  stupid  black  nnist  have  misunder- 
stood me,"  thought  she. 

She  now  rctuiiie<l  to  the  house,  and  wan- 
dfTcd  all  about  in  search  of  some  servants. 
Hut  she  saw  none.  She  began  to  think  that 
Hugo  was  the  oidy  servant  in  the  jilace  ;  and 
if  so,  as  he  had  disapiiearcd,  her  chance  of 
getting  the  brougham  was  small  indeed.  As 
for  Wiggins,  she  did  not  think  of  ;isk lug  him, 
ami  Mrs.  Duiihar  was  too  much  under  the  in- 
Huence  of  Wiggins  for  her  to  ai»ply  there. 
She  was  therefore  left  to  herself. 


Time  jiassed  thus,  and  Edith's  imiiatienro 
grew  intolerable.  At  length,  as  she;  could 
not  obtain  a  carriage,  she  determined  to  set 
out  on  foot  and  walk  to  Dalton.  She  began 
now  to  think  that  Wiggins  had  seen  Hugo, 
foinid  out  what  she  wanted,  and  had  forbid- 
den the  servant  to  obey.  This  secnu'd  the 
only  way  in  which  she  could  account  for  it 
all.  If  this  w<'re  so,  it  showed  that  there 
was  some  un))leasiint  meaning  in  tlat  lan- 
guage which  Wiggins  had  used  to  her  on 
the  previous  evening  about  a  secluded  life, 
and  in  that  case  any  delay  made  her  situa- 
tion more  nni)le!isant.  She  had  already  lost 
too  nnicli  time,  and  therefore  could  wait  no 
longer.  (Jn  the  instant,  tlierefoic,  she  set 
out,  and  walked  down  the  great  avenue  to- 
ward the  gates.  It  was  a  huiger  distance 
than  she  had  suppo.Hcd  :  so  long,  indeed,  did 
it  seem  tlnit  once  or  twice  she  feared  that 
she  had  taken  the  wrong  road;  but  at  last 
her  fears  were  driven  away  by  the  sight  of 
(he  |)ortel"s  lodge. 

On  rciuhing  tli<'  gates  kIio  found  theni 
locked.  For  liiis  she  had  not  been  pre- 
]>ared  ;  but  a  monuMit's  rellection  showed 
lu'r  that  this  need  not  excite  siniuise.  .Sho 
looked  up  at  them  witli  a  faint  idea  of  climb- 
ing over.  < )ne  glance,  however,  showed  t hat 
to  be  impossible  ;  they  were  high,  and  si)iked 
at  the  to]i,  and  over  them  was  a  stone  arch 
which  left  no  room  for  any  one  to  clind)  over. 
She  looked  at  the  wall,  but  that  also  was  be- 
yond her  powers.  t)nly  ouv  thing  now  re- 
nuiineil,and  that  was  to  ajijily  to  the  porter. 
After  tliis  fellow's  rudeness  on  the  i)revious 
day,  she  felt  an  excessive  repugnance  toward 
making  any  a))i)lication  to  him  now;  but  her 
necessity  was  urgent,  and  time  jiressed.  So 
slu'  (piieted  her  scru]des,  and  going  to  tho 
door  of  the  jjortcr's  house,  knocked  impa- 
tient iy. 

The  jiorter  came  at  once  to  the  door,  and 
bowed  as  respectl'idly  as  i>ossibl<'.  His  de- 
meanor, in  fact,  was  totally  ditfer< '  "  from 
what  it  had  been  on  tins  previous  (c,.,s,  and 
evinced  every  desire  to  show  respect,  tliouy;h 
pei'h.'ips  he  might  manifest  it  rather  awk- 
wardly. Edith  noticed  this,  and  was  en- 
com'aged  by  it. 

"I  want  you  to  let  mc  out,"  said  Edilh. 
"I'm  gi>ing  to  Dalton." 

The  man  looked  at  her,  and  then  at  the 
ground,  anil  then  fumldecl  his  lingers  to- 
gether; afti'r  which  he  plunged  his  hands 
in  his  pocki  ts. 

"Do  you  hear  what  I  say?''  said  Edith, 

shari)ly.     "I  want  you  to  unlock  the  gate." 

"Well,  miss,  as  to   that — I  hinnlily    beg 

yo)>r  ]>ardon,  miss,  but  I've  got  my  orders 

"not  to." 

j      "Nons<Mise,"  said  Edith.      "  Xo  one  hero 

'  gives  orders  hut  me.     I  am  mistress  here." 
"Iteg  jiardon,  miss,  but  I  don't  know  any 

,  master  Itut  Master  Wiggins." 

i      "  Wiggins  I"  said  Edilh. 


•urn  iii"^\  • 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"  said  i:.li(b. 


"  Yos,  miss,  nil'  linpiii'  it's  no  oft'i'iise.  I 
hav(^  tit  (il>f,v  oi'dt'i'H." 

"  IJiit  111!  Cdiildn't  liavo  given  yon  ordiTs 
aliont  nil','"  said  Kditli,  liaujiiitily. 

'•Ill-  said  all  itorsons,  miss,  coniin'  or  go- 
in',  all  tile  sanii'.  No  otl'i'iisc  liciii'  iiiti-ndt'd, 
iiiiss,  an'  lii'jugin'  yimr  paiilon." 

"Hut  this  is  alisunl,"  said  Edith.  "Tie 
knows  tliat  I  am  gi'lng  to  DaltDii.  Yon 
liavc  inisniidcrstoiid  liini." 

"I'lii  sorry,  miss.  I'd  do  any  tldn'  to 
oblige,  miss  ;  but  I've  got  to  do  us  I'm  bid." 

"  Who  ein])loys  yon  ?'' 

"Master,  miss — Master  Wiggins." 

"  Do  yon  want  to  keep  this  situation  ?'' 

"  Keep  this  situation  f 

"  Yes.  You  don't  want  to  be  turned  out, 
do  yon  f" 

"Oil  no,  miss." 

"Well,  obey  mo  now,  and  yon  shall  re- 
main. I  am  the  mistress  ot"  Daltmi  Hall, 
and  the  owner  of  these  estates.  Wiggins  is 
the  agent,  and  seems  disinclined  to  do  what 
I  wish.  He  will  have  to  leave.  If  yon 
diin't  want  to  leave  also,  obey  me  now." 

All  this  seemed  to  pnzzh!  the  iiorter,  but 
rertainly  made  no  ini|iression  n])on  his  re- 
solve. He,  looked  at  Kditli,  then  at  the 
ground,  then  at  the  trees,  and  tinally,  as 
Edith  ennclnded,  he  said  : 

"  Heg  pardon,  miss,  but  orders  is  orders, 
an'  I've  got  to  obey  mine." 

Edith  now  began  to  feel  discouraged. 
Yet  thi'i'e  was  one  resource  left,  and  this 
she  now  tried.  Drawing  forth  her  purse, 
slie  took  out  somt!  pieces  of  gold. 

"Come,"  said  she,  "you  ilo  very  well  to 
obey  orders  in  ordinary  eases;  but  in  my 
case  you  are  violating  tlie  law,  and  exposing 
yoursi'lf  to  punishment.  Now  I  will  pay 
.  yiin  well  if  you  do  me  this  little  service, and  , 
will  givi;  you  this  now,  and  much  more  aft- 
erward. Here,  take  this,  and  let  me  out 
<iuick." 

The  porter  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  and  did  not  even  look  at  the  gold. 

"See!"'  said  Edith,  excitedly  and  hurried- 
ly—" ,s,.e !" 

The  jiorter  would  not  look.  I?ut  at  last 
he  sjioke,  and  then  camo  tlio  old  monotonous 
sentence, 

"  Beggin'  your  pardon,  miss,  an'  hopin' 
there's  no  otVense,  I  can't  do  it.  I've  got  to 
obey  orders,  miss." 

At  this  Edith  gave  up  the  efVort,  and  turn- 
ing away,  walked  slowly  and  sadly  from  the 
gates. 

This  was  certainly  more  than  she  Imd  an- 
ticijiated.  By  this  she  saw  plainly  that 
Wiggins  was  determined  to  play  a  bold 
game.  The  jiossibility  of  such  restraint  as 
this  had  never  entt'red  into  her  mind.  Now 
she  recalled  Miss  I'lympton's  fears,  and  re- 
gretted when  too  late  that  she  had  trusted 
herself  within  these  gates.  And  now  what 
the  porter  had  told  her  showed  her  in  one 


instant  tlio  full  deptli  of  liis  design.  TTo 
evidently  intended  to  keeji  her  away  from 
all  communication  with  the  outside  world. 
And  she — what  could  she  do  f  How  could 
she  let  Miss  I'lytrijiton  know  f  How  could 
she  get  out  f  No  doubt  Wiggins  would 
contrive  to  kee])all  avenues  of  escape  closed 
to  her  as  this  (uie  was.  Even  the  walls 
would  be  watched,  so  that  she  should  not 
clamber  over. 

Among  the  most  disheartening  of  lier  dis- 
coveries was  the  incorrnptil>le  fidelity  of  tho 
servants  of  Wiggins.  Twice  already  had 
she  tried  to  bribe  them,  Init  on  each  occa- 
sion she  had  failed  utterly.  The  black  serv- 
ant iiiid  the  jiorter  were  each  alike  beyond 
the  reach  of  her  gold. 

Her  mind  was  now  agitated  and  distressed. 
Ill  her  excitement  she  could  not  yet  return 
to  the  Hall,  but  still  hoped  that  she  might 
escape,  tlioiigli  the  ho|ie  was  growing  faint 
indeed.  S!ie  felt,  humiliated  liy  the  defeat 
of  her  attempts  upon  the  ho'iesty  of  the 
servants,  yiie  was  tioiililed  by  the  thongiit 
of  her  isolation,  and  did  not  know  what 
might  be  best  to  do. 

I  One  thing  now  seemed  evident,  and  this 
was  that  she  had  a  better  chance  of  esca])iiig 
at  this  time  than  she  would  have  afterward. 

I  If  she  was  to  lie  watched,  the  outlook  could 

I  not  yet  be  as  perfect  or  as  well  organized  as 
it  would  afterward  be.    And  among  the  ways 

I  of  escape  she  could  think  of  nothing  else 
than  the  wall.  That  wall,  she  thought,  must 
certainly  allbrd  some  places  which  she  might 

[  scale.  She  might  find  some  gate  in  a  re- 
mote placi!  which  could  atford  egress.  To 
this  she  now  determined  to  devote  herself. 

With  this  i»iirposeoii  her  mind,  she  sought 
to  find  her  way  through  the  trees  to  the 
wall.  This  she  was  able  to  do  without  much 
ditliculty,  for  though  the  trees  grew  thick, 
there  was  no  underbrush,  but  she  was  able 
to  walk  along  without  any  very  great  trou- 
ble. Penetrating  in  this  way  through  the 
trees,  she  at  length  came  to  the  wall.  But, 
to  her  great  disai>i)ointment,  she  fiuind  its 
height  here  (|uite  as  great  as  it  had  been 
near  the  gate,  and  though  in  one  or  two 
jilaccs  trees  grew  np  which  threw  their 
branches  <nit  over  it,  yet  those  trees  were 
altogether  inaccessible  to  her. 

.Still  she  would  not  give  uji  too  f|nickly, 
but  i'ollowed  the  wall  for  a  long  distance. 
The  further  she  went,  however,  the  more 
lio])eless  did  her  search  seem  to  grow.  Tho 
ground  was  nnei[ual,  sometimes  rising  into 
hills,  and  at  other  times  sinking  into  val- 
leys; but  in  all  places,  whether  hill  or  val- 
ley, the  wall  arose  high,  formidable,  not  to 
be  scaled  by  one  like  her.  As  she  looked  at 
it  the  thought  came  to  her  that  it  had  been 
arrar.ged  fiir  that  very  purjiose,  so  that  it 
should  not  b(^  easily  climbed,  and  so  it  was 
not  surprising  that  a  barrier  which  might 
bafile  th(^  active  poacher  or  trespasser  should 


30 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


iili 


prove  inmiperablo  to  a  slender  girl  liko 
bcr. 

She  wiuKhTcd  on,  liowcvcr,  in  Hi)ito  of  »liM- 
conriii^rnicnt,  in  tin;  lio])<>  of  linilin^  ii  ^iito. 
lint  tliiH  Kcai'ch  \vaM  iih  vain  as  t\u'  other. 
After  \vall<inf;  for  lionrs,  till  Iier  feeble  linibH 
conld  seareely  sui'i>ort  iier  any  lonfjer,  hIic 
Hank  down  exliaiiHted,  and  burst  into  tears. 

For  a  Ion;;  time  sbe  wepLoverwliebned  by 
aceunndated  sorrow  and  desjiondency  and 
dis:i|i|iointinent.  At  len^jtb  she  roused  her- 
self, and  drying  lior  eyes,  looked  up  and  be- 
gan to  think  of  returning  to  the  Hall. 

To  her  aina/.einent  she  saw  the  blaek  serv- 
iint,  lingo,  standing  not  far  away.  As  she 
raised  her  eyes  he  took  oil'  his  cap,  and 
grinned  as  nsuid.  The  sight  of  liini  gave 
Edith  a  great  shock,  and  excited  new  sus- 
picions ami  fears  within  her. 

Had  she  been  Ibllowed  ? 

She  nnist  have  been.  She  had  been 
watched  and  tracked.  AlUher  desperate  et- 
forls  had  been  noted  tlown  to  be  reported  to 
Wiggins  -all  her  long  ami  fruitless  seartdi, 
her  ballled  endeavors,  her  frustrated  hopes! 

It  was  too  much. 


CTIAPTKK  VII. 
A  paui.i:y  with  thio  .jah.kiw. 

CoMiNC  as  it  di<l  elost;  upon  her  l)aflled 
eftbrts  to  escape,  this  discovery  of  Hugo  j)r()- 
(dainied  to  Edith  at  once  most  unmistakably 
the  t'lH't  that  slu^  was  a  prisoner.  Slie  was 
walled  in.  She  was  uinler  guard  and  under 
Hurveillance.  She  could  not  escajie  without 
the  consent  r>f  Wiggins,  nor  could  she  move 
about  without  being  tracked  by  the  H])y  o{ 
Wiggins.  It  was  evidt^nt  also  that  both  the 
l)orler  and  the  blaek  servant  Hugo  were  d«'- 
voted  to  their  master,  and  were  beyond  the 
reach  both  of  jtersuasion  and  of  bribery. 

The  discovery  for  a  moment  almost  over- 
whelmed her  once  niorc^ ;  but  the  ju'csenco 
of  another  forced  her  to  put  ari'straiut  u])on 
her  feelings.  She  tried  to  look  unconiMirn- 
ed,  and  turning  away  her  eyes,  she  sat  in 
the  saiue  jiosition  for  sonic  time  longer. 
Hut  bcMicath  the  calm  which  her  i)ri<le  forced 
her  to  assume  her  heart  throbbed  jjainfully, 
and  her  thoughts  dwelt  with  something  al- 
most like  dcs)>airupon  heri)rescnt  situation. 

Ibit  Edith  had  a  strong  and  resolute  soul 
in  spite  of  her  slender  and  fragile  frame  ; 
she  had  also  an  elastic  disjiosition,  which 
rose  up  swiftly  from  any  jirostration,  and  re- 
fused to  be  cast  <lown  ntterly.  So  now  this 
strength  of  her  nature  asserted  itself;  and 
triumphing  over  her  monu'ntary  weakness, 
she  resolved  to  go  at  once  and  see  Wiggins 
himself.  With  these  subordinates  she  had 
nothing  to  do.  Her  business  was  with 
Wiggins,  and  with  Wiggins  alone. 

Yet  the  thought  of  an  interview  had  some- 


thing in  it  which  was  Htrangely  reimgnant 
to  Edith.  The  aspe<'t  of  her  two  Jailers 
seemed  to  her  to  be  reptdlent  in  the  extreme. 
That  whitt!  cdd  nnm,  with  the  solemn  mys- 
tery of  his  eyes,  that  w<'ir<l  (dd  wonum.with 
h(M-  keen,  vigilant  outlook — these  were  the 
ones  who  now  htdd  her  in  restraint,  and 
with  these  she  ha<l  to  eonu^  in  eontlict.  In 
both  of  them  then'  seemed  something  ini- 
eaiMiy,  and  Edith  coidd  not  help  feeling  that 
in  the  lives  of  both  of  these  there  was  sour- 
mystery  that  ])assed  her  i'om]irehensi<in. 

Still,  uncanny  or  not,  whatever  might  be 
the  mystery  of  hi'r  jailers,  they  remained 
her  jailers  and  nothing  less.      It  wasagiiinst 
this  thought  that  the  proud  soul  (d'  Edith 
chafed  and  fretted.     It  was  a  thought  which 
was  intcderable.      It  roused  her  to  the  in- 
tensest  indignation.      She  was  the  lady  of 
Dalton   Hall;  these   who  thus  dared  to  re- 
]  strain    her    were   her    subordinates.      This 
Wiggins  was  not  only  her  inferior,  but  be 
;  had  been  the  enemy  of  her  life,     (,'oidd  she 
'  siibnnt  to  fresh  indignities  or  wrongs  at  the 
hands  of  one  who  had  already  done  so  nnicli 
evil  to  her  and  hers  ?     She  could  not. 

That  white  old  man  with  his  mystery,  his 
awful  ey(!s,  his  vcnerabh^  face,  his  unfatli- 
omabht  expression,  and  the  weird  old  wom- 
an, his  associate,  with  her  indcscribabh^ 
look  and  her  air  of  watchfulness,  were  both 
partners  in  this  crinm  of  unlawful  im|U-ison- 
ment.  They  dared  to  jnit  restrictions  upon 
the  nu)vcmt^nts  of  their  nnstress,  the  lady 
of  Dalton  Hall.  Such  an  attempt  could  only 
be  the  sign  of  a  des]>erate  mind,  and  the  vil- 
lainy of  their  plan  was  of  itself  enough  to 
sink  them  deep  in  Edith's  thoughts  down  to 
,  an  abyss  of  contempt  and  indignation.  This 
I  indignation  roused  her,  and  her  eagerness  to 
see  Miss  Plympton  imi)elled  her  to  action; 
Aninnited  by  such  feelings  and  motives,  she 
delayed  no  longer,  but  at  once  returned  to 
I  the  Hall  to  see  Wiggins  himself. 

On  her  way  back  sln^  was  conscious  of  the 
'  fact  that  Hugo  was  following;  but  she  took 
I  no  notice  of  it,  as  it  was  but  the  sequel  to 
I  the  jirecedinif  events  <>f  (lie  day.     SliO  en- 
tered the  Hall,  and  linding  Mrs.  Dunbar,  told 
her  to  tell  Wiggins  that  she  wished  to  see 
him.      After  this   she   went   down    to    the 
dreary  drawing-room,  where  she  awaited  the 
eoniliig  of  her  jailer. 

]  The  room  was  unchanged  from  what  it 
had  been  on  the  iirecediiig  day.  Hy  this 
time  also  Edith  had  noticed  that  there  wen- 
no  servants  about  except  Hugo.  The  drear 
desolation  of  the  vast  H.-ill  seemed  drearier 
from  the  few  inmates  who  dwelt  there,  and 
the  solitude  of  the  place  nnide  it  still  more 
intolerable. 

After  some  time  Wiggins  made   his  ap- 

jjcarance.     He  came  in  slowly,  with  his  eyes 

lixiul  upon  Edith,  and  the  same  expression 

upon  his  face  which  she  had  noticed  before. 

'  A  most  singular  man  be  was,  whoever  or 


!!■; 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


31 


y  n-piimmnt 
two  JailtTH 
tlic  cxtrciiic. 
Holfiiin  iiiys- 
kV(>nin(i,'\vitli 
I'sr  were  tin- 
straiiit,  anil 
I'diillii't.  In 
ini'tliin};  un- 
I  t'l'i'liii^  tliiit 
'H'  was  Houie 
■licnision. 
krr  niinlit  1)0 
i'\  rt'inaiiicd 
w  MS  a^jiiinst 
)iil  <il'  Kdilh 
i(>nf;lit  wliich 
•r  to  till'  in- 
tlii!  laily  of 
ilari'i!  to  ri'- 
iialrs.  'I'liis 
iTior,  Imt  lie 
.  Could  slif 
.roiij^s  at  till- 
lont'  so  niiu.'h 
111  not. 

i  niyntrry,  liis 

',  his  nnt'ath- 

ird  old  woni- 

indi'srrilialdc 

ss,  wi'i'i'  liolh 

i'ld  ini))i'ison- 

ictions  njion 

ss,  tilt!  lady 

l>t  could  only 

,anil  the  vil- 

If  rlionjfli  to 

;lits  down  to 

lation.    Tliis 

cajilTlU'HH  to 

|i'i'  to  action; 
niotivoH,  slic 
returned  to 

isciouH  of  the 
lilt  slit)  took 

lie  Ni>i|uel  to 

Hy.  Slic.  cii- 
•iinbar,  told 
islicd  to  sec 

own  to  the 
awaited  the 

loni  what  it 
ly.  }^}■  this 
It  there  were 
The  tlreav 
hied  drearier 
It  there,  and 
lit  tstill  more 

|ade  his  ap- 
lith  lii.s  eyes 
I  expression 
lieed  before. 
Iwhoever  or 


whatever  he  niinht  he.  That  lioary  liead 
and  that  vcncrahie  face  nii;;lit  liave  awed 
lier  unth'r  other  circuniMtanccs,  and  the  un- 
fathoinahh;  mystery  of  its  eN|iression  mij^Iit 
liave  awakened  intense  interest  and  symjia- 
thy;  hut  as  it  was,  Kditii  had  no  place  for 
any  other  feelings  than  suspicion,  indigna- 
tion, and  scoru. 

"  What  (h)  you  mean  by  this  treatment  ?" 
said  IMilli,  iihruptly.  '"  It  seems  as  though 
yini  are  trying  to  imprison  inc.  I  have  told 
you  that  I  wish  to  call  on  Miss  lMym))ton. 
I  can  not  get  a  carriage,  anil  I  am  not  allow- 
ed to  leave  this  pl:ice  on  foot.  You  are  re- 
s]>onsilile  for  this,  and  I  tell  you  now  that  I 
must  go,  anil  at  oucc." 

At  this  peremptory  address  Wiggins  stood 
looking  at  her  with  his  usual  expression, 
and  for  souui  moments  niailt!  no  reply. 

"  1  dill  not  know,"  said  he  at  length,  in  a 
slow  and  hesitating  voice,  "  that  you  wished 
to  leave  so  soon."' 

"  Hut  I  told  you  so.  You  drove  awny  Miss 
Plymptonyi'sterday  from  my  gates.  I  prom- 
ised to  c.'iU  oil  her  this  morning.  She  is 
anxiously  exjuicting  nit!.     I  nuist  go  to  lier." 

AViggins  again  waited  for  a  few  moments 
ln'fore  replying,  and  at  length  said,  in  an 
abstracted  tone: 

"No,  no;  it  can  not  be — it  can  not  be!" 

"  fan  not  be !"  rein'ated  I'ldith.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  yt»u  arc  trying  to  carry  out  a 
most  extraordinary  course  of  action  towiird 
me.  Tliis  looks  like  restraint  or  inii»rison- 
ment." 

Wiggins  looked  at  her  with  an  expression 
of  earnest  entreaty  t)n  his  face,  with  which 
there  was  also  mingled  au  air  of  indescriba- 
ble sadness. 

"It  is  necessary,"  said  he,  in  a  mournful 
voice.  "  Can  you  not  bring  yourself  to  l)ear 
with  it  ?  Y'ou  do  not  know  what  is  at  stake. 
Some  day  ail  will  be,  ex](lained.'' 

"Tins' is  silly,"  exclaimed  Kdith.  "No 
explanation  is  possible.  I  insist  on  leaving 
this  place  at  once.  If  you  refuse  to  let  me 
go,  it  will  bo  worse  for  you  than  for  me." 

"Y'ou  do  not  know  what  you  ask,"  said 
Wiggins. 

"I  ask  you,"  said  Edith,  sternly  and 
proudly,  "to  open  those  gates  to  your  mis- 
tress." 

Wiggins  shook  his  head. 

"I  ask  you  to  open  tlio.se  gates,"  eontiniu^d 
Edith.  "If  you  let  me  go  now,  I  ]>romise 
not  to  prosecute  you— at  least  for  this.  I 
will  forget  to-day  and  yesterday." 

Saying  this,  she  looked  at  him  imiuiringly. 

But  Wiggins  shook  his  head  as  before. 

"  It  can  not  be,"  said  he. 

"  You  ilecide,  then,  to  refuse  my  demand  ?" 
said  Edith,  impatiently. 

"  I  nnist,"  said  Wiggins,  with  a  heavy 
sigh.  "  It  is  necessary.  All  is  at  stake. 
You  do  not  know  what  you  are  doing." 

"  It  is  evident  to  me,"  said  Edith,  niaster- 


'  ing  herself  by  a  strong  effort,  "  that  you  are 
]ilaying  a  desperate  game,  but  at  the  same 
time  y;iu  are  trusting  much  to  chance.  Why 
did  you  wish  me  to  come  here  ?  It  was  by 
the  merest  chance  that  I  decided  to  come. 
It  was  also  by  another  chance  that  I  eutert^d 
I  those  giites  which  you  now  shut  against  my 
departure.     Few  would  havt!  done  it." 

"Your  presence  seemed  necessary  to  my 
jilans,"  said  Wiggins,  slowly.  "  What  those 
plans  are  I  can  not  yet  conlide  to  you.  You 
are  concerned  in  them  as  much  as  I  am.  Op- 
position will  be  of  no  avail,  and  will  only 
injure  you.  Ibit  I  hope  you  will  not  try  to 
oppose  me.  I  entreat  yon  to  bear  with  me. 
I  entreat  you  to  try  to  iiut  a  little  conlideiiee 
in  me.  I  was  your  father's  friend;  and  I 
now  implore  you,  that  daughter  whom  he 
loveil  so  dearly,  for  your  father's  sake— yes, 
and  for  the  sake  of  your  sainted  mother — 
not  to -" 

"This  is  mere  hyi)ocrisy,"  interruj)ted 
Edith.  "My  father  was  mie  with  whom 
one  like  you  can  have  nothing  in  common. 
You  add  to  your  crimes  by  this  tri^atmi^nt  of 
his  tlaughter.  What  you  have  already  been 
guilty  of  toward  him  you  alone  know.  If 
you  ho]ie  for  mercy  hereafter,  do  not  atld  to 
your  guilt." 

"(iiiilt!"  critui  Wiggins,  in  an  awful  voice. 
We  started  back,  and  regarded  her  with  eyes 
of  utter  horror,  "(luilt !"  he  ri'in'ated,  in  a 
voice  so  low  that  it  was  scarcely  above  a 
wliis])er — "and  she  says  .hat  word!" 

Edith  looked  at  him  with  unchanged  se- 
verity. 

"  Y'ou  made  a  great  mistake,"  said  she, 
coldly  and  sternly,  "  when  you  drovi'  Jliss 
I'lympton  away.  If  you  hope  to  kiiep  me 
ini|irisoned  hero,  you  will  only  destroy  your- 
self. I  have  a  friend  who  knows  yiui,  and 
who  will  know  before  evening  that  I  am 
here  under  restraint.  She  will  never  rest 
until  she  ell'ects  my  deliverance.  Have  you 
counted  on  that  ?'' 

Wiggins  listened  attentively,  as  usual,  to 
every  word.  The  efVort  seemed  to  give  him 
pain,  and  the  suggestion  of  her  fritiiid  was 
nniloiibtedly  most  un]ileasant. 

"No,  I  have  not,"  said  he.  He  s]>i)ke  as 
though  to  himself.  The  candor  of  tliis  con- 
fession stimulated  Edith  to  dwell  to  a  great- 
er extent  upon  this  subject. 

"She  was  not  willing  for  nu>  to  como  in," 
said  she.  "  She  wished  me  not  to  enter  with- 
out a  lawyer  or  the  shcritV.  If  she,  finds  that 
I  am  tlctaiued,  she  will  enter  here  in  that 
way  herself  She  will  deliver  me  in  spite 
of  you.  If  she  does  not  ,see  nui  to-ilay,  she 
will  at  once  u.se  every  elfort  to  come  to  me. 
Y'our  porters  and  your  spi<!8  will  be  of  no 
u.se,  against  the  otlicers  of  the  law." 

At  this  Wiggins  looked  at  the  iloor,  and 
was  evidently  in  a  state  of  i)erplexity.  He 
stood  in  silence  for  some  time,  and  Edith 
waited  impatiently  An*  his  answer,  so  as  to 


--!.ii. 


32 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Iciirn  wlint,  fffcct  thvno  Inst  liintH  liml  jiro- 
(liicfd.  At  length  Wij;;;iiiH  Idokctl  up.  Ho 
Hltokii  Hlowly  aiid  iiKmrnriilly. 

"  I  am  vrry  Hiirry,"  Maid  \u'.  "  I  liojii!  it 
will  not  coinii  to  tliat.  I'm  afraid  that  I 
Hliall  have  to  takr  you  cIhcwIktc." 

'riicHd  wordH  fell  upon  Kdith'H  cars  onii- 
iiou.sly  and  tlircafciiiii^ly.  Tlify  conveyed 
to  Iter  mind  a  m(>na<'(>  dark  and  gloomy,  and 
Mliowi'd  the.  lull  determinatioti  of  Wi^fnins 
to  maintain  at  all  ha/.ardH  thi^  control  that 
ho  had  gained  over  her.  Kdith  therefore 
w»H  silent,  and  apjirehensive  of  evil.  She 
WHH  afraid  that  hIic  htid  said  too  miu-li.  It 
might  have  been  better  not  to  threaten,  or 
to  show  lii^r  hand  prematurely.  It  might 
ho  tlie  best  plan  to  wait  in  Hilenco  and  in 
l)atieneo  for  Minn  I'lymiiton.  Wiggins  was 
dcKiierate.  He  might  take  her  away,  a.s 
lie.  darkly  hinted,  from  this  place  to  Home 
other  where,  Mi.ss  I'lymptou  could  never 
find  her. 

Slu^  Ntood  for  somo  time  in  silence,  with 
her  mind  full  of  such  thoughts  as  these. 
Wiggins  waited  for  a  few  monuMits,  and  then 
turned  and  slowly  left  the.  room.  Edith  said 
nothing,  and  made  no  effort  to  recall  him, 
for  she  now  felt  that  her  situation  was  grow- 
ing serious,  and  that  it  would  ]n'  better  for 
her  t(.  think  it  .-ill  over  seriously,  and  not 
spe.'ik  to  Wiggins  again  until  slu^  had  ile- 
cided  upon  somt>  definite  plan  of  action. 
She  therefor*!  allowed  him  to  take  liis  de- 
]>arture,  and  soon  afterward  she  went  to  her 
own  room,  where  she  remained  for  liuurs  in 
deep  thought. 

At  length  Mrs.  Dunbar  bronglit  in  dinner. 
After  laying  the  table  she  stood  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence  looking  at  Eilith  ;  but 
at  length,  yielding  to  some  sudden  impulse, 
sht!  cauu»  forward,  iind  as  Edith  looked  up 
in  surprise,  she  exclaimed,  with  startling  ab- 
rui)tness, 

"Oh,  how  unfortunate!  and  oli,  what  a 
■wretched  mistake  you  are  under!  If  yon 
had  not  come  home  so  suddenly,  all  might 
have  been  well.  We  hoped  that  you  would 
bo  content  and  patient.  Mr.  Wiggins  has 
plans  of  immense  imiiortance ;  they  require 
great  <|uiet  and  seclusion.  Oh,  if  you  could 
only  have  some  faith  in  us!" 

She  stopped  as  abruptly  as  sho  had  be- 
gun. This  style  of  address  from  a  house- 
keeper seem<!(l  to  Edith  to  be  altogether  too 
familiar,  and  sho  rescMited  it  deeply.  He- 
sides,  the  identification  of  herself  with  Wig- 
gins jiut  Mrs.  Dunbar  in  au  odious  position 
in  Edith's  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Wiggins's  plans  are  of  no  conse- 
quence to  nu)  whatever,"  said  sho,  coldly. 

"  They  are  ;  they  arc  of  immense  impor- 
tance," cried  Mrs.  Dunbar. 

Edith  lot)ked  at  her  for  a  few  momejits 
with  a  cold  stare  of  wonder,  for  this  volun- 
teered advice  seemed  something  like  inso- 
lence, coming  thus  from  a  subordinate.    Hut 


h1h>  contented  herself  with  answering  in  a 
<piiet  tone : 

"  You  are  mistaken.  Nothing  is  of  imi)or- 
tance  to  me  but  my  liberty.  It  will  be  very 
dangerous  to  deprive  me  of  that.  My  friemls 
will  never  allow  it.  In  Wiggins  this  at- 
tempt to  ]>ut  mo  under  restraint  is  nothing 
less  than  desi)erati<>u.  Think  yourself  how 
frantic;  he  nmst  be  to  lio]i(!  lO  be  iible  to  con- 
fine mo  here,  when  I  have  friends  outside 
who  will  nu)vo  heaven  and  earth  to  eonu!  to 
nu-." 

At  this  a  look  of  nneasim>ss  came  over 
Mrs.  Dunbar's  face.  It  seemed  to  Edith  that 
this  hint  at  friends  without  wiis  the  only 
thing  that  in  any  way  affected  either  of  her 
jailers. 

"The  ])unishment  for  such  a  criuu-  as  un- 
lawful imprisonment,'' c(uitinued  Edith,  "is 
a  severe  oiu*.  If  Wiggins  has  ev<'r  eonnnit- 
ted  any  crimes  before,  this  will  only  aggra- 
vatt!  his  ^iiilt,  and  nutko  his  punishment  the 
worse." 

At  this  Mrs.  Dunbar  stared  at  Edith  with 
the  same  horror  in  her  eyes  wnicli  Wiggins 
had  l.'itely  shown. 

"Criml-?"  she  repeated.  "Guilt?  Pun- 
ishment? Oil,  Heaven.i!  Has  it  come  to 
this?  This  is  terrible.  (Jirl,"  she  continued, 
with  a  frown,  "you  don't  know  the  dreadful 
nature  of  those  words.  You  are  a  marplot. 
Y'ou  have  come  home  to  ruin  every  thing. 
Hut  I  thought  HO,"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"  I  told  him  so.  I  said  it  would  be  ruin,  liut 
he  would  have  his  way.  And  now — "  The 
remaimhsr  of  her  remarks  was  imiudible. 
Sfiddenly  her  manner  changed.  Her  anger 
gav(!  way  once  more  to  entreaty. 

"  Oh  !"  she  said,  "  can  nothing  ]iersuado 
you  that  we  aro  your  friends?  Trust  us — 
oh,  trust  us!  You  will  soon  learn  how  wo 
love  you.  Ho  only  thinks  of  you.  Y'ou  aro 
the  final  aim  of  all  his  plans." 

Edith  gave  a  light  laugh.  That  she  was 
the  final  aim  of  Wiggins's  plans  sht!  did  not 
doubt.  She  saw  now  that  plan  clearly,  as 
she  thought.  It  was  to  gain  control  of  her 
for  i>urpose8  of  his  own  in  connection  with 
the  estate!.  Under  such  eircuinstances  Mrs. 
Dunbar's  entreaties  l^eemed  silly,  and  to 
niak(!  any  answer  was  absurd.  Sho  turned 
away  ami  sat  down  at  the  table.  As  for 
Mrs.  Dunbar,  she  left  the  room. 

Night  came.  P^dith  did  not  sleep ;  sho 
could  not.  The  day  had  been  the  most 
eventful  one  of  her  life.  The  thought  that 
sho  was  a  prisoner  was  terrible.  She  could 
only  sustain  her.s<'lf  by  the  hope  that  Miss 
Plympton  would  save  her.  But  this  hojio 
was  confrotited  by  a  dark  fear  which  great- 
ly distressed  her.  It  mi^ht  take  time  for 
Miss  Plympton  to  do  any  thing  toward  re- 
leasing her.  She  knew  that  the  law  work- 
ed slowly :  sho  did  not  feel  at  all  certain 
that  it  worked  surely.  Her  father's  fate 
rose  before  her  as  a  warning  of  the  law's 


THE  LIVINO  LI\K. 


8S 


nswiTing  111  a 

ng  is  of  iinpor- 
It  will  Itr  very 
lit.  M.v  frifinls 
im'u\H  this  iit- 
liiit  is  iiotliiiig 
I  yourscll"  iiow 
1k'  iiMi'  ti>  <'()ii- 
'ririKlH  oiitsido 
irth  to  ('oiiii!  to 

ICHH    CaillO    OVfT 

(1  toKilitli  liiiit 

was  tilt'  only 

•d  I'itlK  r  of  lier 

I  a  criiur  as  nn- 
nm\  Kditli,  "is 
IS  ever  coniniit- 
vill  only  a^';,'ra- 
[luniHliiiu'iit  the 

1  at  Edith  with 
wnich  \Vi};K''>» 

"Gnilt?  rmi- 
las  it  coind  to 
'  slio  continued, 
ow  the  (hfadful 
1  arc  a  inaii)lot. 
lin  every  thing, 
inred  to  herself, 
iild  lie  ruin,  hut 
id  now — "    The 

was  iiiaiidihle. 
Her  anger 

ity. 

thiiiK  persuade 

Is?     Trust  us — 

learn  how  we 

:'  you.     You  are 

That  she  was 
ims  she  did  not 
Ian  clearly,  as 
control  of  her 
■onnectioii  with 
umstances  Mrs. 
silly,  and  to 
.  She  turned 
table.  As  for 
tin. 

not  sleep;  she 
been  tliti  most 
le  thouf^ht  that 
hie.  She  could 
hope  that  Miss 
But  this  hoi>o 
ar  wliich  {jrcat- 
tako  time  for 
iiig  toward  re- 
the  law  work- 
1  at  all  certain 
er  father's  fate 
<r  of  the  law's 


cuime:  giilt; 


nncertalnty  and  injustice.  Could  she  hope 
to  he  more  fortunate  than  he  had  been  ? 
Wi^f^ins  hinl  passed  his  life  in  the  study  of 
the  law,  and  knew  how  to  work  it  for  his 
own  private  ends.  Hii  liiid  (uiee  succeeded 
in  his  dark  plot  afj;ainst  her  fatlier.  Mi;rlit 
not  his  jireseut  "  plan,"  about  which  he  and 
his  associate  tiilked,  be  e(|iially  Hiiccessful  f 
Mrs.  Dunbar  had  called  her  a  "  mariilot." 
To  mar  the  plot  of  this  man,  and  aveuij;e 
upon  him  the  wronj;s  of  her  fallier,  would 
l)e  sweet  indeed  ;  but  could  it  be  possilih^ 
for  her  to  do  it  ?    That  was  the  (luestion. 

The  next  morninj;  came,  and  Kdith  rose 
full  of  a  new  puriiosts.  She  thou;^ht  of  her 
elVorts  on  tin-  precediu}^  day,  and  eouclmlcd 
that  she  had  niad(^  one  <;i'eat  mistake.  Sim 
saw  now  that  Miss  I'lympton  had  most  pi'oli- 
altly  called,  and  had  not  been  a<lmitted.  If 
she  had  only  remained  by  tin;  j^ate,  she  could 
have  seen  her  friend,  and  told  her  all.  That 
she  had  not  thoujjht  of  this  before  was  now 
ii  matter  of  the  dee]>est  refj;ret,  and  she  could 
oidy  liope  that  it  miifht  not  yet  bt!  too  late. 
Slii^  determined  to  go  to  the  gates  at  once 
:ind  watch. 

She  therefore  hurried  down  to  the  gates 
as  soon  as  she  could.  No  etlbrts  were  made 
to  ]irevent  her.  She  had  feared  that  she 
might  be  locked  up  in  the  Hall ;  but,  to  her 
surprise  and  relief,  she  was  not.  Such  for- 
bearance maile  her  situation  still  mons  jier- 
l)lexing.  It  was  evident  that  AViggins  lies- 
itated  about  proceeding  to  extremities  with 
(J 


her,  mid  did  not  venture  as  yet  to  exercise 
more  than  a  general  restraint. 

Arriving  at  the  gate,  Edith  sat  down  close 
by  it  on  a  seat  in  front  of  the  jiorter's  lodge, 
and  waited  and  watched.  The  gates  were  of 
iron  bars.  HO  that  it  was  easy  to  see  thrcnigh 
them,  and  the  road  ran  in  front.  The  road 
was  not  much  fre(|uented,  however.  An  oc- 
casional farmer's  wagon  or  solitiiry  jiedes- 
trian  formed  the  only  life  that  was  visible 
outside.  The  porter  watched  her  for  some 
time  in  surprise,  but  said  nothing.  Hugo 
came  up  .after  alioiit  half  an  hour  an<l  talk- 
ed with  the  porter,  after  which  he  loitered 
1  about  within  sight  of  Edith.  Of  all  thi.s, 
however,  I'".dilh  took  no  notice  whatever; 
it  was  what  she  ex]iected. 

'i'he  hours  of  the  day  |iassed  by,  but  there 
w'ere  no  signs  of  Miss  I'lympton.     As  hour 
I  after  hour  jiassed,  Edith's  ho]ies  grew  faiiit- 
,  er  and  fainti'i'.     She  longed  to  iisk  the  por- 
\  ter  whether  she  had  called  or  not,  but  could 
j  not  bring  h(>rself  todo  so — first,  because  she 
!  did  not  like  to  destroy  all  hope;  iind  sec- 
ondly, because  shi'  ditl  not  wish  to  hold  any 
further  commiinieat ion  with  him. 
I      She  sat  there  all  day  long.     Miss  Plymp- 
ton  did  not  come.     The  hours  jiassed  by. 
Evening  came.     She  had  eaten  nothing  all 
■  day.     Shi!  was  faint  and  w<'ary,  and  almost 
;  in  despair.     Ihit  to  wait  longer  was  useless 
!  now ;  so  she  rose  from  h(!r  seat,  and  with 
^  feeble  footsteps  returned  to  the  house. 
I      Early  the  next  morning  she  returned  to 


.14 


THE  LIVING  LIXK. 


the  ){iitcH  to  take  u]>  In-r  Htution  im  Ix'fnro 
and  watch.  Sin-  did  nut  liopo  t<i  hvv  MInh 
I'l,viii|iti>ii  now;  for  nhv  conrliidcd  tliat  nIic 
liad  calli'd  alrrady,  lia<l  lircii  Inriii'd  liack, 
and  wart  now  pfi'lnt|m  i'n^a){('d  in  arran^in^ 
tor  licr  n'Ncuc.  Knt  Kdilli  ciinld  not  wait 
lor  lliat.  Slit>  dt'tcrndni'd  to  do  Hdnii'tliiii;; 
lii'rMflC.  Slic  rcNolvcd  to  accoHt  all  ]iaNHi'rs- 
liyand  t<'ll  tlu'iu  her  Nitinition.  In  tiiinway 
HJio  tIion;^iit  hIic  ini^lit  excite  liic  world  out- 
side, and  lead  to  hoiuu  intcriioNitiou  in  lier 
beliall'. 

Full  of  this  ]inr|)ONe,  whc  went  down  to 
tile  j{ateH.  Am  nhi'  drew  near,  tlie  (ir.st  si^ht 
<d'  tiieni  sent  a  feeling  oI'di.Hniay  to  lier  lieari. 
A  elian;{e  liad  taken  place.  Something  had 
been  done  during  tho  nlj^ht. 

8iie  drew  nearer. 

Ill  a  few  nionients  she  saw  It  all. 

Tint  ii'^U'H  had  lieen  hoarded  np  dnrin;; 
the  ni^ht  ho  that  it  wa.s  iniposHihle,  to  hco 
the  road. 

One  look  waH  enonjih.  This  las)  hope 
was  destroyed.  There  was  nolhin;;'  to  lie 
done  liere  ;  and  so,  Hi<'k  at  heart,  I'dilb  turn- 
ed buck  tuwurd  tliu  Hall. 


CHAPTKIt  VIII. 

iMISS    I'l.Y.MI'lON    HAI'II.KD. 

JIkanwiiii.i:  Miss  I'lyni|iton  h.id  been  nn- 
ilerjioin;;  varions  ]diases  of  feclini;,  alterna- 
tiny;  between  anxiety  and  hope,  and  termi- 
nal inif  in  a  icsoliition  which  Inoiii^lit  foilh 
inii>ortant  results.  On  tht^  ilcpartnii^  of 
Kdith  she  had  watched  her  till  'ler  cairi;i;;e 
was  out  of  sij;ht,  and  then  saoly  and  reluc- 
tantly had  Kiv<'n  (trdciH  to  drivo  back  to 
Dalton.  On  arriving;  there  she  put  up  at. 
tlie  inn,  and  thou;;h  full  of  anxiety,  she  ti'icnl 
to  wait  iis  patiently  as  po8,sil)le  for  the  fol- 
lowing; day. 

Accustomed  to  move  ainonjj  the  f^reat,  and 
tore)j;ard  them  with  a  certain  reveieiice  that 
pervades  the  middle  classes  in  KiiKland,  she 
tried  first  of  all  to  ])revent  any  villaf^e  }ios- 
sip  about  Edith,  and  so  she  endeavored,  by 
warninfi;and  by  bribery,  to  induce  the  maid, 
the  footman,  and  the  driver  to  say  nothinji; 
about  the  scene  at  the  f^ates.  Another  day, 
sht!  hoped,  would  make  it  all  rif^ht,  and  idle 
{jossiit  should  never  be  allow(!d  to  meddle 
with  th(!  name  of  Kdith  in  any  way. 

That  eveniiiff  Edith's  note  was  brought  to 
her.  On  receiving  it  she  read  it  hurriedly, 
and  then  went  down  to  see  who  had  brought 
it.  She  saw  th(^  ])orter,  who  told  her  that  he 
had  como  for  Miss  Dalton's  bai;;;!ij;(!.  The 
porter  treated  her  with  an  etiort  to  bo  re- 
Hpectful,  which  appeared  to  >I'ss  l'lym])ton 
to  be  a  fjood  omen.  She  oH'crt  <l  him  a  ]dcce 
of  <;(dd  to  propitiate  him  still  further,  but,  to 
her  amazement,  it  was  declined. 

"  Thank  yu  kindly,  mum,"  said  he,  touch- 


ing his  hat,  "  an'  hope  it's  no  ofTeuHe  ;  but  wn 
beant  allowed  to  take  nolhin'  savin'  an'  ex- 
cept what  he  ^ives  us  hisself." 

A  iiumicnt's  surprise  was  succeeded  by  ilie 
thought  that  even  this  was  of  ^ood  omen, 
since  it  seemed  to  indicate  a  scut  of  rouj{h, 
blntr,  slerlinjj  honesty,  which  could  not  co- 
exist with  a  nature  that  was  altop'iher  bad. 

Keturnin;;  to  lier  room,  she  once  more  icad 
Edith's  note.  Its  tone  eiicouratjed  her  >;reat- 
ly.  It  seemed  to  show  that  all  her  fears  had 
been  vain,  and  that,  whati^ver  the  character 
of  WijJi^iiis  mi^ht  be,  there  could  be  no  im- 
mediate dan};er  to  Edith.  So  K''''i»t,  indeed, 
was  the  enconra>;i'ment  which  she  received 
from  this  not(>  that  she  be^an  to  think  her 
fears  fooliish,  and  to  believe  that  in  En<;land 
no  possible  harm  could  befall  one  in  ivlith's 
position.  It  was  with  such  thoughts,  and 
the  hope  of  secin>;  Edith  on  the  foUowinj; 
day,  that  she  retired  for  the  ni;;ht. 

lier  sleep  was  refreshing;,  and  she  did  not 
awake  till  it  was  <inite  late.  On  awakinj; 
and  tindin;;  what  time  it  was,  she  rose  and 
dressed  hastily,  ifi'cakfast  was  served,  and 
she  bewail  to  look  out  for  Edith. 

Time  i>asse(l,  however,  and  Edith  did  not 
make  her  appearaiu'e.  Miss  I'lympton  tried 
to  acconnl  for  the  <lelay  in  ev<'ry  iiossible 
way,  and  consoled  herself  as  loni;  as  she 
could  by  the  llion;;ht  that  she  had  been  very 
miieh  fati;;ne<l,  and  had  not  risen  until  very 
lali'.  lint  llit^  hours  ])assed,  and  at  len;;tli 
noon  came  without  brinjiin;;  any  sijfns  of 
her,  and  Miss  I'lympton  was  unaliie  any 
lousier  to  repress  her  niieasiiiess.  This  in- 
action j;rew  intolerable,  and  she  determined 
to  set  forth  anil  see  for  hciselt".  Accordiiiffly 
she  had  the  earriat;e  made  ready,  and  in  a 
short  time  reacheil  the  ))ark  K'lte. 

She  had  to  rin;;  for  a  Ion<;  time  before  any 
Olio  a|ipeared;  but  at  leii;;th,  after  fully  an 
hour's  delay,  the  jtorter  came.  lie  touched 
his  hat  on  seciii};  her,  but  stood  on  the  other 
tiideof  th((  iron  >;ati'way  without  openinj;  it. 

"  Is  Miss  Dalton  at  tlie  Hall  if"  asked  Miss 
I'lympton. 

''  Yes,  miim." 

"  I  wish  to  see  her." 

"  He;;  yer  jiardon,  nnim,  but  there  bo  no 
I  callers  allowed  in." 

I      "Oh,  it's  ditferent  with  me.     Jliss  Dalton 
I  wrote  that  she  would  come  to  see  me  this 
niorninj;,  and  I'm  afraid  she's  ill,  so  I  luive 
come  to  see  her." 

"  She  beant  ill,  then,"  said  the  other. 

Miss  riymiiton  retlected  that  if  was  of  no 
use  to  talk  to  this  man,  and  thou;;ht  of  Wig- 
gins himself. 

"  Is  your  master  in  ?''  she  a.sked. 

"  He  is,  mum." 

"Tell  him  I  wish  to  see  him." 

"  liegjiin'  yer  pardon,  mum,  he  uever  sees 
nobody." 

"  Unt  I  wish  to  see  him  on  business  of  u 
Very  important  kind." 


TIIK  LIVING  LINK. 


35 


■fiiM(» ;  Itiit  wo 
Hiiviii'  an'  fX- 

[■c«'(!im1  l>y  iln' 

f   ^Ollll    OlIU'll, 

oit  of  i<)iij;li, 
coiilil  not  CO- 
tom'tliiT  Itail. 
HIT  nimr  read 
icil  litT  nicat- 
lii-r  Irars  liail 
the  (liaracter 
iilil  lit'  III)  iiii- 
frfcal,  iiiilrrd, 
I  shr  ii'irivcd 
to  tliink  hiT 
it  ill  Eii};laiiil 
Mil*  in  Ivlith's 
lliiiii|;lils,  ami 
till'  t'i(lli)\viii>; 

Ill  slic  dill  not 

On  awaking 
,  slir  rosr  and 
iiM  wrvc'd,  and 
h. 

Edith  did  nut 
iyniptnn  tried 
'ViTy  iiossildi^ 
■\  Ion;;  as  she 
had  liicn  very 
sen  until  very 
iiiid  at  li-ii;;tli 

any  si;;ns  of 
<  iinahli'  any 
I'.ss.     This  iii- 

11'  di'liTiiiini'd 
Ai'('oriliii;;ly 

ady,  and  in  a 

iti'. 

Ill'  ln'Coro  any 

il'tiT  fully  an 
111'  toiichi'il 

I  oil  till!  other 

lilt  o|ii'niii;;  it. 

/"  asked  MisH 


tlicro  ho  no 

Miss  Dalton 
ii  sei-  nil'  this 
]ill,  8o  I  have 

■10  other. 

it  was  of  no 
|ii;;ht  of  Wig- 

lhI. 

|io  never  aces 
jusiness  of  a 


"  Tnii't  helj)  it,  niinn — Itejijjin'  yer  imidoii ; 
hut  I've  K"'  •"  "hey  orders,  iniiiii." 

"My  ;{ood  fellow,  can't  you  take  my  mes- 
l)nf(<'<  •>■'  h'l  >■>•'  >■>  to  Mee  him  ?" 

".Sorry,  niiiiii,  hut  I  eun't ;  I've  got  my  or- 
dorH." 

"  Hilt  lio  cnn't  know.  TIiIh  lumiiieHN  \h  ho 
iniportant  that  it  will  he  very  had  for  him 
if  lie  dues  not  see  lile  now.  Tell  llilll  that. 
(ill,  now  ;  you  ean't  know  what  liiH  l)iiHiiii<HH 
is.     Tell  him  that—" 

"^Vell.  mum,  if  you  iuMiNt,  I  don't  mind 
(Toiu',"  said  the  porter.     "  I'll  tell  him." 

"Say  that  I  wish  to  see  him  at  oiiee,  and 
that  the  husiiiesN  I  have  is  of  the  utmost  iiii- 
portame." 

The  porter  toneheil  his  hat, and  walked  olV. 

Now  followed  another  period  of  waiting;. 
It  was  fully  half  Jill  hour  liefoie  he  returned, 
Mi-^s  riympton  s.iw  tliiit  he  was  alone,  and 
her  heart  sank  within  her. 

"  Mr.  Wi;,';;iiis  presents  his  respects, mum," 
said  he,  "and  savs  he's  sorrv  he  can't  see 
yon." 

"Did  you  tell  him  that  my  hiisiness  was 
of  the  most  iniportant  kind  f" 

"Yes.  mum." 

"  And  he  refuses  to  come  ?" 

"lie  Htiys  Le'H  sorry  he  can't  see  you, 
mniii." 

At  this  Mi,ss  riympton  was  silent  for  a 
little  wliile. 

"Come,"  said  wlie  at  last,  "my  good  fel- 
low, if  I  could  only  see  him,  and  meiit  ion  one 
or  two  things,  he  would  he  very  glad.  It 
will  he  very  much  to  his  injury  if  he  does 
not  SCO  nie.  You  jiiijiear  ii>  he  a  faithful 
servant,  and  to  earc  for  your  master's  inter- 
ests, SO  do  you  let  me  jiass  through,  and  I'll 
I'ngagc  to  kei'ityon  from  all  liariii  or]innisli- 
nieiit  of  any  kind." 

"  Sony,  mniii,  to  rcfiiRO ;  hut  orders  is  or- 
ders, mum,"  said  the  man,  stolidly. 

"  If  I  am  not  allowed  to  go  in,"  .<aiil  Miss 
riympton,  "surely  Miss  Dtiltoii  will  eoiiie 
here  to  see  nie — here  .at  the  gates." 

"  I  don't  know,  mum." 

"Well,  yon  go  and  tell  her  that  I  am 
here." 

"Sorry  to  refuse,  mum;  hut  it's  agin  or- 
ders.    No  callers  allowed,  niiiiii.'' 

"Hut  Miss  Dalton  can  come  as  far  as  the 
gates." 

The  man  looked  puzzled,  and  tlien  mut- 
tered, 

"Mr.  Wiggins's  ordias,  ninm,  is  to  have 
no  communication." 

"Ah!"  said  Miss  Plymiiton ;  "so  sho  is 
shut  lip  here." 

"  Heggin'  your  pardon,  mum.  she  heant 
shut  u]i  at  all  nowheres:  she  goes  ahout." 

"Then  why  can't  I  see  her  hero?" 

"Agin  orders,  niiiiii." 

Hy  this  Miss  riympton  understood  the 
worst,  and  fully  helieved  that  Edith  was  un- 
der strict  restraint. 


"  My  good  man,"  naid  Mho,  Holemnly,  "  you 
and  your  r. aster  are  committing  a  great 
crime  ill  diring  to  keep  any  one  here  in  itii- 
)irisonmi"it,  especially  the  one  who  owim 
these  estates.  I  warn  him  now  to  hew  are, 
for  MiSs  Dalton  has  powerful  fiieiiilN.  As  to 
you,  yon  may  not  know  that  you  are  hreak- 
ing  the  law  now,  and  are  liahle  to  transpor- 
tation for  life.  Conie,  don't  hreak  the  laws 
and  incur  such  daii;;ei'.  If  I  elmose  I  can 
hriiig  here  to-nioi'ro\\  t  he  oDicers  of  (he  law, 
release  Miss  Dalton,  and  have  you  and  your 
master  aiiested." 

At  this  the  man  looked  troiilded.  lie 
scratched  his  head,  drew  a  long  hreatli.  and 
looked  at  the  ground  with  a  frown. 

Miss  riympton,  seeing  that  this  shot  had 
told,  followed  it  ii|>. 

"  Hefiise  me  adiiiittaiieo,"  said  she,  "and  I 
will  hi'iiig  hack  those  who  will  eoine  here  in 
the  name  of  the  law  ;  hut  if  yon  let  me  in,  I 
lii'omise  to  say  nothing  ahout  this  niiilter." 

The  )iorter  now  seemed  to  have  recovi'i'ed 
himself,  lie  raised  his  head,  and  the  idil 
monotonous  reply  came  : 

"  Sorry,  mum,  hut  it's  agin  orders." 

Miss  I'lympton  made  one  further  attempt. 
She  drew  forth  her  purse,  and  displayed  its 
eonteiits. 

"  See,"  said  she,  "  you  will  ho  doing  a  kind- 
ness to  your  master,  and  yim  shall  have  all 
this." 

Hut  tlu^  man  did  not  look  at  the  ]nirse  at 
all.  His  eyes  were  tixed  on  Miss  riympton, 
and  he  merely  replied  .as  hefore: 

"  Sorry,  iiinin,  hilt  it's  agin  oiders." 

"Very  well,"  said  Miss  IMymptoii.  "There 
is  only  one  thing  left  for  me  to  do.  I  wish 
you  to  lake  one  linal  message  from  me  to 
your  master.  Tell  him  this:  It  ismy  inten- 
tion to  procure  help  for  Miss  Dalton  at  once. 
Tell  him  tli.'it  her  uncle.  Sir  Lionel  Diidleigh, 
is  now  in  Kngland,  and  that  this  very  day  I 
shall  set  out  for  Diidleigh  Manor.  I  shall 
tell  Sir  Lionel  how  his  niece  is  situated,  and 
hring  him  here,  lie  will  come  with  his  own 
claims  and  the  ollieers  of  the  law.  Wiggins 
sh.'ill  he  arrested,  together  with  all  who  have 
aided  and  ahetted  him.  If  he  let'iises  to  ad- 
mit me  now,  1  sii:ill  i|iiit  this  place  and  go 
at  (Mice  without  delay,  (io,  now,  .'iiid  make 
haste,  for  this  matter  is  of  too  great  iiniior- 
tance  to  ho  decided  hy  you." 

The  porter  seonied  to  tliink  so  too,  for, 
touching  his  hat,  he  at  once  withdrew.  This 
time  he  was  gone  longer  than  hefore,  .•ind 
Miss  I'lympton  waited  for  his  return  with 
great  imiiatieiicc.     At  length  he  came  hack. 

"  Mr.Wiggins  presents  his  respects,  mum," 
said  the  man,  "and  says  ho  is  not  hreakin' 
any  law  jit  all,  !ind  that  if  you  choose  to  go 
for  Sir  Lionel,  he  is  willin'  to  have  you  do  so. 
He  says  if  you  fetch  Sir  Lionel  here  he  will 
let  hotli  of  you  in.  He  says  he'll  ho  very 
haii])y  indeed  to  see  Sir  Lionel." 

This  singular  way  of  taking  what  was 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


meant  to  be  a  most  formidable  threat  took 
away  Miss  Plymptc  's  last  hope,  and  reduced 
her  to  a  state  of  dejection  and  bewilderment ; 
for  when  she  sent  that  threatening  mes- 
sage, it  was  not  beciuse  she  had  really  any 
fixed  design  of  carrying  it  into  execution, 
but  rather  because  the  name  of  Sir  Lionel 
Dudleigh  seemed  to  her  to  bo  one  which 
might  overawe  the  mind  of  Wiggins.  She 
thtiught  that  by  reminding  Wiggins  of  the 
existence  of  this  powerful  relative,  and  l)y 
threatening  an  instant  appeal  to  him,  she 
would  b(>  able  to  terrify  liini  into  releasing 
Editli.  IJut  his  cool  answer  destroyed  this 
hope.  She  felt  puzzled  at  his  a'ssertion  that 
he  was  not  breaking  any  law,  when  ho  him- 
self must  know  well  that  such  a  thing  as  the 
imprisonment  of  a  free  subject  is  a  crime  of 
the  most  serious  character;  but  she  felt  even 
iiiore  puzzled  at  his  reference  to  Sir  Lionel. 
H(!r  own  connection  and  association  with 
the  aristocracy  had  never  destroyed  that 
deep  unswerving  reverence  for  them  with 
which  she  had  set  out  in  life ;  and  to  lind 
Wiggins  treating  the  mention  of  Sir  Lionel 
witli  such  cool  imlifterence  v.as  to  her  an  in- 
comprehensible thing.  But  there  was  noth- 
ing more  for  her  to  do  at  this  place,  and  feel- 
ing the  necessity  of  innnediate  action,  she  at 
once  drove  back  to  the  inn. 

Arriving  here,  she  hoped  that  her  prompt 
departure  might  frighten  Wiggins,  and  lead 
to  a  change  in  his  decision,  and  she  con- 
cluded to  renuiin  that  evening  and  that  night, 
so  as  to  give  him  time  for  repentance. 

Nothing  was  left  now  but  to  devise  some 
plan  of  action.  First  of  all,  she  made  inqui- 
ries of  the  landlord  about  Wiggins.  Tliat 
pe'.'sonago  could  tell  her  very  little  about 
him.  According  to  him,  Mr.  Wiggins  was  a 
lawyer  from  Liverpool,  who  had  been  in- 
trusted witli  the  management  of  the  Dalton 
estate  for  the  past  ten  years.  He  was  a  very 
quiet  man,  devoted  to  his  business,  and  until 
latterly  had  never  been  at  Dal  ton  oftener  or 
longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary.  Of 
late,  however,  ho  had  been  living  here  for 
some  months,  and  it  was  believed  that  he 
intended  to  stay  hero  the  greater  part  of  his 
time. 

This  was  all  that  Miss  Plympton  was  able 
to  learn  about  Wiggins. 


CHAFfER  IX. 

SIR  LIONEL  DUDLKIGH. 

Althoug!!  Miss  Plympton  had  indulged 
the  hope  that  Wiggins  might  relent,  the 
time  passed  without  l)ringing  any  message 
from  him,  and  every  hour  as  it  passed  made 
a  more  pressing  necessity  for  her  to  decide 
on  some  plan.  The  more  she  thought  over 
the  matter,  the  more  she  thought  that  her 
best  plan  of  action  lay  in  that  very  threat 


which  she  had  made  to  Wiggins.  True,  it 
had  been  made  as  a  mere  threat,  but  on 
thinking  it  over  it  seemed  the  b(^st  policy. 

The  only  other  course  lay  in  action  of 
her  own.  She  might  find  some  lawyer  and 
get  him  to  interpose.  But  this  involved  a 
responsibility  on  her  part  from  which  she 
shnyik  so  long  as  there  was  any  other  who 
had  a  better  right  to  incur  such  responsibil- 
ity. Now  Sir  Lionel  was  Edith's  uncle  by 
marriage;  and  though  there  had  been  trou- 
ble between  husbaiul  and  wife,  she  yet  foit 
sure  that  one  in  Edith's  position  wor.ld  lK- 
cito  tho  sympathy  of  every  genenms  heart, 
and  rouse  Sir  Li(mel  to  action.  One  thing 
might,  indeed,  prevent,  and  that  was  the  dis- 
grace that  had  fallen  upon  the  Dalton  nnnie. 
This  might  prevent  Sir  Lionel  from  taking 
any  part ;  but  Miss  Plympton  was  sanguine, 
and  lioi)ed  that  Sir  Lionel's  opinion  of  the 
condenmcd  man  might  be  like  her  own,  in 
which  case  he  would  bo  willing,  nay,  eager, 
to  save  tho  daughter. 

The  lirst-thing  for  her  to  do  was  to  find 
out  where  Sir  Lionel  Dudleigh  lived.  About 
this  there  was  no  difiiculty.  Burke's  Peer- 
age and  Baronetage  is  a  book  which  in  most 
English  homes  lies  beside  the  Bible  in  the 
most  honored  place,  and  this  inn,  humble 
though  it  might  be,  was  not  without  a  copy 
of  this  great  Bible  of  society.  This  Miss 
Plympton  procured,  and  at  once  set  herself 
to  the  study  of  its  pages.  It  was  not  with- 
out a  feeling  of  self-abasement  that  she  did 
this,  for  she  prided  herself  upon  her  exten- 
sive knowledge  of  the  aristocracy,  but  here 
she  was  deplorably  ignorant.  She  comfort- 
ed herself,  however,  Ijy  the  thought  that  her 
ignorance  was  the  fault  of  Sir  Lionel,  who 
had  lived  a  somewhat  quiet  life,  and  had 
never  thrust  very  much  of  his  personality 
before  the  world,  and  no  one  1)ut  Sir  Ber- 
nard Burke  conld  be  expected  to  find  out  his 
abode.  That  great  authority,  of  course,  gave 
her  all  the  information  tliat  she  wanted,  and 
she  found  that  Dudleigh  Manor  was  situated 
not  very  far  distant  from  Cheltenham.  This 
would  reqiiire  a  detour  which  Avould  involve 
time  and  trouble ;  but,  under  the  circum- 
stances, she  would  have  been  willing  to  do 
far  more,  even  though  Plympton  Terrace 
should  be  without  its  tutelary  genius  in  the 
mean  time. 

On  the  next  morning  Miss  Plympton  left 
Dalton  on  her  way  to  Dudleigh  Manor.  She 
was  still  full  of  anxiety  about  Edith,  but  the 
thought  that  she  was  doing  somethin, ;  and 
the  sanguine  anticipations  in  wliich  she  in- 
dulged with  reference  to  Sir  Li(uiel,  did  much 
to  lessen  her  cares.  In  due  time  she  reaci  ed 
her  destination,  and  after  a  drive  from  the 
station  at  which  she  got  out,  of  a  mile  or  two, 
she  found  herstslf  within  Sir  Lionel's  grounds. 
These  were  extensive  and  well  kept,  wliilo 
the  manor-house  itself  was  one  of  the  noblest 
of  its  class. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


37 


[gins.  True,  it 
threat,  but  on 
10  best  policy, 
y  ill  action  of 
)ino  lawyer  and 
tliiH  involved  a 
Voni  which  she 

any  other  who 
nch  rcHponsibil- 
Idith's  nncle  by 
!  had  been  trou- 
nfe,  she  yet  fcit 
tition  wof.ld  tX- 

generous  heart, 
ion.  One  thing 
that  was  the  dis- 
he  Dalton  mnie. 
mel  from  taking 
)n  was  sangnine, 
s  opinion  of  tho 
like  her  own,  in 
lliug,  nay,  eager, 

o  do  was  to  find 
igh  lived.    About 
f.     Burke's  I'eer- 
k  which  in  most 
tho  Biblo  in  tho 
this  inn,  huniblo 
(t  without  a  copy 
iiety.    This  Miss 
b  once  8(!t  herself 
It  was  not  witli- 
iient  that  she  did 
upon  her  exten- 
tocracy,  but  here 
it.     Slit!  conii'ort- 
tliought  that  her 
Sir  Lionel,  who 
et  life,  and  had 
his  personality 
one  but  Sir  Her- 
ted  to  find  out  his 
y,  of  course,  gave 
she  wanted,  and 
nor  was  situated 
heltenhain.    This 
ch  would  involve 
ider  the  circum- 
en  willing  to  do 
lynipton  Terrace 
ary  genius  in  the 

iss  Plynipton  left 

eigli  Manor.    She 

lit  Edith,  but  the 

g  soniethiii,:  nnd 

in  which  she  in- 

Lionel,  did  much 

time  she  read  cd 

a  drive  from  tho 

:,ofamileortwo, 

Lionel's  grounds. 

well  kept,  while 

one  of  tho  noblest 


After  she  had  waited  for  some  time  in  an 
elegant  drawing-room  a  servant  camo  with 
Sir  Lionel's  apologies  for  not  coming  to  seo 
her,  on  account  of  a  severe  attack  of  gout, 
and  asking  her  to  come  up  staii-s  to  the  li- 
brary. Miss  Plympton  followed  the  servant 
to  that  (luarter,  and  soon  found  herself  in 
Sir  Lionel's  presence. 

He  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  with  his 
right  foot  wrapped  in  flannels  and  resting 
up(m  a  stool  in  front  of  him,  in  orthodox 
gout  style.  Ho  was  a  man  apparently  of 
about  fifty  years  of  age,  in  a  state  of  excel- 
lent jireservation.  His  head  was  partially 
bald,  his  brow  smooth,  his  cheeks  rounded 
and  a  little  fiorid,  with  whiskers  on  each 
side  of  his  face,  and  smooth -shaven  chin. 
There  was  a  pleasant  smile  on  his  face, 
which  seemed  natural  to  that  smooth  and 
rosy  countenance ;  and  this,  togeth','r  with 
a  general  tendency  to  (loriuilency,  which 
was  rather  becoming  to  the  man,  and  the 
gouty  foot,  all  served  to  suggest  high  living 
and  self-indulgence. 

"  I  really  feel  ashamed  of  myself,  Miss — 
ah — Plympton,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  "  for  giving 
you  so  much  tnmble ;  but  gout,  you  know, 
my  dear  madam,  is  not  to  bo  trilled  with ; 
and  I  assure  you  if  it  had  been  any  one  else 
I  should  have  declined  seeing  them*.  But 
of  course  I  could  not  refuse  to  see  you,  and 
the  only  way  I  could  have  that  pleasure  was 
by  begging  you  to  come  here.  Tho  mount- 
ain could  not  come  to  Mohammed,  and  so 
Mohammed,  you  know — eh  ?     Ha,  ha,  ha !" 

The  baronet  had  a  cheery  voice,  rich  and 
mellow,  and  his  laugh  was  ringing  and  mu- 
sical. His  courtesy,  his  pleasant  smile,  his 
genial  i.ir,  iind  his  hearty  voice  and  laugh, 
all  filled  Miss  Plympton  with  sincere  do- 
light,  and  she  felt  that  this  man  could  do 
nothing  else  than  take  up  Edith's  cause  with 
the  utmost  ardor. 

After  a  few  apologies  for  troubling  him, 
which  Sir  Lionel  turned  aside  by  protesting 
that  apologies  were  only  due  from  himself 
to  her,  Miss  Plympton  began  to  state  tho  ob- 
ject of  her  visit. 

"In  tho  first  place.  Sir  Lionel,"  said  she, 
"I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  have  heard 
of  tho  death  of  Frederick  Dalton,  Esr^uire, 
in  Van  Diemen's  Land." 

Tho  smile  on  the  baronet's  face  died  out 
at  this,  and  his  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon 
Miss  Plympton's  face  with  quick  and  eager 
curiosity.  Then  ho  turned  his  face  aside. 
A  table  stood  on  his  right,  with  some  wino 
and  glasses  within  reach. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  he;  "I  beg  ten  thou- 
sand pardons ;  but  tconU  you  take  a  glass  of 
wino?  No?"  he  continued,  as  Miss  Plymp- 
ton politely  declined;  "really  I  think  you 
had  better."  And  then,  pouring  out  a  glass, 
he  sipped  it,  and  looked  at  her  once  more. 
"Poor  Dalton !"  said  ho,  \>  itli  a  sigh.  "  Yos, 
of  course,  I  saw  it  in  tho  papers.     A  most 


melancholy  affair.  Poor  Dalton !  Let  mo  in- 
form you,  madam,  that  he  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning."     Sir  Lionel  sighed. 

"  Oh,  Sir  Lionel,"  exclaimed  Miss  Plymp- 
ton, earnestly,  "  how  it  rejoices  my  heart  to 
hear  you  say  that!  For  my  part,  I  never, 
never  had  one  single  doubt  of  his  perfect  in- 
nocence." 

"  Nor  had  I,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  firmly,  pour- 
ing out  another  glass  of  wine.  "  It  was 
excessively  unfortunate.  Had  I  not  myself 
been  in — in — ah — attliction  at  tho  time,  I 
might  have  done  something  to  help  him." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Lionel,  I'm  sure  ycni  would  !" 

"Yes,  madam,"  said  Sir  Lionel ;  "but  do- 
mestic circumstances  to  which  I  am  not  at 
liberty  to  allude,  of  a  painful  character,  put 
it  out  of  my  power  to — to — ah — to  interpose. 
I  was  away  when  the  arrest  took  place,  and 
when  I  returned  it  was  too  hife." 

"  So  I  have  understood,"  said  Miss  Plymp- 
ton ;  "and  it  is  because  I  have  felt  so  sure 
of  your  goodness  of  heart  that  I  have  como 
now  on  this  visit." 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  give  mo  tho  chance 
of  showing  you  that  your  confidence  in  me 
is  well  founded,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  cordially. 

"  You  may  have  heard.  Sir  Lionel,"  began 
Miss  Plympton,  "  that  about  the  time  of  the 
trial  Mrs.  Dalton  died.  She  died  of  a  broken 
heart.  •  It  was  very,  very  sudden." 

Sir  Lionel  sighed  heavily. 

"She  thought  enough  of  me  to  consider 
me  her  friend;  and  as  she  did  not  think  her 
own  relatives  had  shown  her  sufticient  sym- 
pathy, she  intrusted  her  child  to  me  when 
dying.  I  have  had  that  child  over  since. 
She  is  now  eighteen,  and  of  age." 

"A  girl!  God  bless  my  soul!"  said  Sir 
Lionel,  thoughtfully.  "  And  does  she  know 
about  this— this — melancholy  business?" 

"I deemed  it  my  duty  to  tell  her.  Sir  Lio- 
nel," said  Jliss  Plympton,  gravely. 

"I  don't  know  about  that.  I  don't — 
know — about — that,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  purs- 
ing up  his  lips  and  frowning.  "  Best  wait  a 
while;  but  too  lat<!  now,  and  the  mischief's 
done.     Well,  and  how  did  she  take  it  ?" 

"  Nobly,  Sir  Lionel.  At  first  she  was  quite 
crushed,  but  afterward  rallied  iiiKlcr  it.  But 
she  could  not  remain  with  me  any  longer, 
and  insisted  on  going  homo — as  she  called 
it— to  Dalton  Hail." 

"Dalton  Hall!  Y'es— well?  Poor  girl! 
poor  little  girl! — an  orphan.  Dalton  Hall! 
Well  ?" 

"  And  now  I  como  to  tho  real  purpose  of 
my  visit,"  said  Miss  Plympton;  and  there- 
upon she  went  on  to  give  him  a  minute  and 
detailed  account  of  their  arrival  at  Dalton 
and  the  reception  there,  together  with  tho 
subsequent  events. 

To  all  this  Sir  Lionel  listened  without  one 
word  of  any  kind,  and  at  length  Miss  Plymp- 
ton ended. 

"  Well,  madam,"  said  he,  "  it  may  surprise 


38 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


you  that  I  liiive  not  made  any  comments  on 
yonr  aHtonisliiiig  8tory.  If  it  bad  been  less 
aeriouH  I  miglit  have  <h»ne  so.  I  might  even 
have  indulged  in  profaiui  hmguage — a  Iiabit, 
madnui,  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  have  ac- 
quire<l  from  not  freciuentiug  more  tlie  soci- 
ety of  ladies.  Hut  this  business,  madam,  is 
beyond  coiinnent,  and  I  can  only  say  that 
I  rejoice  and  f(;el  grateful  that  you  de- 
cided as  you  did,  and  have  come  at  once  to 
me." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  and  such  a  load  is  tak- 
en olf  my  mind !"  exclaimed  Miss  Plymptou, 
fervently. 

"  Why,  madam,  I  aTU  utterly  astoiuuled  at 
this  man's  au<lacify,"  cried  Sir  Lionel — "  ut- 
terly astounded!  To  think  that  any  man 
should  (!ver  venture  uixtn  sM(th  a  course! 
It's  positively  almost  inconceivable.  And 
so  y<ui  tell  mo  that  she  is  there  now  V 

'"'  Yes." 

"  Under  the  lock  and  key,  so  to  speak,  of 
this  fellow  V 

"  Yes." 

"And  she  isn't  allowed  even  to  go  to  the 
gate  ?" 

"No." 

"The  man's  mad,"  cried  Sir  Lionel — 
"mad,  raving  mad.     Did  you  see  him  ?" 

"  No.     llii  wouldn't  ciuisent  to  see  me." 

"  Why,  I  tell  you,  he's  a  madman,"  said 
Sir  Lionel.  "  He  must  be.  No  sane  man 
could  think  of  such  a  thing.  Why,  this  is 
England,  and  the  ninet<'enth  century.  The 
days  of  ju'i vate  imprisonment  are  over.  He's 
mad !     The  man's  mad !" 

"  Hut  what  is  to  bo  done.  Sir  Lionel  ?" 
asked  Miss  Plymi)ton,  impatiently. 

"  Done  ?"  cried  Sir  Lionel — "'  every  Ihing! 
First,  we  nnist  get  Miss  Dalton  out  of  that 
rascal's  clutches;  then  wo  must  hand  that 
fellow  and  his  confederates  over  to  tht)  law. 
And  if  it  dmi't  end  in  Botany  Bay  aiul  hard 
labor  for  life,  then  there's  no  law  in  the  land. 
Why,  who  is  he  ?  A  pettifogger — a  misera- 
ble low-born,  low-bred,  Liverpool  i)ettifog- 
ger!" 

"  Do  yon  know  him  ?" 

"Know  him,  madam?  I  know  all  about 
him — that  is,  as  nnich  as  I  want  to  know." 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  about  the  rela- 
tions that  fonnerly  existed  between  him  and 
Mr.  Frederick  Dalton  ?" 

"  Relations  f"  said  Sir  Lionel,  pouring  out 
another  glass  of  wine—"  nrlations,  madam — 
that  is — ah — to  say — if.h — business  relations, 
madam  ?  Well,  they  were  those  of  patron 
and  client,  I  believe — nothing  more.  I  be- 
lieve that  this  Wiggins  was  one  to  whom 
poor  Dalton  behaved  very  kindly— made  him 
■what  lu)  is,  in  fact — and  this  is  his  reward! 
A  pettifogger,  by  Heaven  ! — a  pettifogger ! 
Seizing  the  Dalton  estates,  the  sc(uindrel, 
and  then  putting  Miss  Dalton  under  lock  and 
key !  Why,  the  man's  mad — mad !  yes,  a 
taving  numiae !     He  is,  by  Heaveu !" 


"And  now,  Sir  Lionel,  when  shall  we  be 
able  to  eftect  her  release  f ' 

"  Leave  it  all  to  me.  Leave  it  all  to  me, 
madam.  This  infernal  gout  of  mine  ties  mo 
up,  but  I'll  take  measures  this  very  day  ;  I'll 
send  oft"  to  Dalton  an  agent  that  will  free 
Miss  Dalton  and  bring  her  here.  Leave  it 
to  mo.  If  I  don't  go,  I'll  send — yes,  by  Heav- 
en, I'll  send  my  son.  Hut  give  yourself  no 
trouble,  madam.  Miss  Dalton  is  as  good  as 
free  at  this  moment,  and  Wiggins  is  as  good 
as  in  jail." 

Miss  Plymptou  now  asked  Sir  Lionel  if  ho 
knew  what  Wiggins  meant  by  his  answer  to 
lujr  threat,  and  she  repeated  the  message. 
Sir  Lionel  listened  with  compressed  lips  and 
a  frowning  brow.  After  Miss  Plympton  had 
told  it  ho  sat  for  some  minutes  in  silent 
thought. 

"  So  that  is  what  he  said,  is  it  V  ex- 
claimed Sir  Lionel  at  last.  "  Well,  madam, 
wo  shall  see  about  that.  Hut  don't  give 
yourself  a  monunit's  UTieasiness.  I  take  the 
matter  in  hand  from  this  moment.  The  in- 
solence of  this  fellow,  Wiggins,  is  unparal- 
leled, madam ;  but  be  assured  all  this  shall 
surely  recoil  on  his  own  head  with  terrible 
eftect." 

Some  further  conversation  followed  to  tlio 
same  effect,  and  at  length  Miss  Plympton 
took  her  leave,  full  of  hope  and  without  a 
care.  Sir  Lionel  had  hinted  that  she  was 
not  needed  any  more  in  the  matter ;  ami  as 
she  felt  a  n.'itural  delicacy  about  obtruding 
her  services,  she  decided  to  go  back  to  Plymp- 
ton Terrace  and  wait. 

Accordingly  Miss  Plympton,  on  leaving 
Dudleigh  Manor,  went  back  to  Plymptou 
Terrace. 


CHAPTER  X. 


LEOX. 

For  some  time  after  Miss  Plympton's 
departure  Sir  Lionel  renuiined  buried  in 
thought.     At  length  ho  rang  the  bell. 

A  servant  apjieared. 

"  Is  Captain  Dudleigh  hero  yet  ?"  asked 
Sir  Lionel. 

"Yes,  Sir  Lionel." 

"  Tell  him  that  I  want  to  sec  him." 

The  servant  departed,  and  in  a  short  time 
the  door  ojtened  and  a  young  nuin  entered. 
H(i  was  tall,  nmseular,  well-formed,  and  with 
suflicient  resemblance  to  Sir  Lionel  to  indi- 
cate that  he  was  liis  son.  For  some  time  Sir 
Lionel  took  no  notice  of  him,  and  Captain 
Dudleigh,  throwing  himself  in  a  lounging 
attitmle  upon  a  chair,  leaned  his  head  back, 
anil  stared  at  the  ceiling.  At  length  he  grew 
tinnl  of  this,  and  sitting  erect,  he  looked  at 
Sir  Lionel,  who  was  leaning  forward,  with 
his  elbow  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  supporting 
his  head  in  his  hand,  and  evidently  quite 
oblivious  of  the  preseuce  of  any  ouo. 


■  ■  .  -r^j    I 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


39 


shall  wo  bo 

it  all  to  me, 
linii  ties  iiio 
•ry  day ;  I'll 
iit  will  free 
I.  Leave  it 
3S,  hy  Heav- 
yourself  uo 
s  im  good  us 
18  is  as  good 

Lionel  if  ho 
is  answer  to 
lio  message, 
ised  lips  au<l 
ympton  had 
es  in  silent 

is  it?"  ex- 
'ell,  madam, 
,  don't  give 
I  take  tlio 
ut.  The  in- 
,  is  unparal- 
lU  this  shall 
ivith  terrible 

lowed  to  the 
ss  riympton 
d  without  a 
hat  she  was 
ittcr;  and  as 
it  obtruding 
cktoPlymp- 

on  leaving 
;o  Plymptou 


Plympton's 
buried  in 
bell. 

yet  ?"  asked 


him." 

I  short  time 
nan  entered. 
( (1,  and  with 
)iifl  to  indi- 
onie  time  Sir 
and  Captain 
1  a  lounging 
is  head  bai'k, 
gthhegrew 
ho  looked  at 
trward,  with 
r,  supporting 
dently  (luito 
y  one. 


"  Did  yon  wish  to  see  me,  Sir  ?"  said  Cap- 
tain Dudleigh  at  length. 

Sir  Lionel  started  and  raised  his  head. 

"  By  Jove !"  lie  exclaimed.  "  Is  that  yon, 
Leonf  I  believe  I  must  have  been  asleep. 
Have  you  been  waiting  long  f  Why  didn't 
you  wake  me?  I  sent  for  yon,  didn't  I  f  Oh 
yes.  Let  me  see.  It  is  a  business  of  the 
greatest  importance,  and  I'm  deuced  glad 
that  yon  are  here,  for  any  delay  would  be 
bad  for  all  concerned." 

Sir  Lionel  paused  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  began : 

"  You  know  about  that — that  melancholy 
story  of — of  poor  Dalton." 

Leon  nodded. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  he  is  de.ad  ?" 

"Well,  some  paragraphs  have  been  going 
the  rounds  of  the  papers  to  that  eHeet,  though 
wliy  they  should  drag  the  poor  devil  from 
his  seclusion,  even  to  aTuionnee  his  death,  is 
somewhat  strange  to  me." 

"Well,  he  is  dead,  poor  Dalton!"  said  Sir 
Lionel,  "and — and  so  there's  an  end  of  him 
and  that  melancholy  business.  l?y-the-way, 
I  supi»ose  you  haven't  heard  any  particulars 
as  to  his  death  ?" 

"No,"  said  Leon,  "nothing  beyond  the 
bare  fact.  Besides,  what  does  it  nuitter  ? 
When  a  man's  dead,  uiuler  such  circum- 
stances, too,  no  one  cares  whether  ho  died  of 
fever  or  gunshot." 

"  Trne,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  with  a  sigh.  "  It 
isn't  likely  that  anyone  would  trouble  him- 
self to  find  out  how  poor  Dalton  died.  Well, 
that  is  the  lirst  thing  that  I  had  to  mention. 
And  now  there  is  another  thing.  You  know, 
of  course,  that  he  kft  a  daughter,  who  has 
been  growing  up  all  these  years,  and  is  now  of 
age.  She  has  been  living  under  the  care  of 
a  Miss  I'lympton,  from  whom  I  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  call  this  morning,  and  who  appears 
to  be  a  remarkably  sensible  and  right-minded 
person." 

"  A  daughter  ?"  said  Leon.  "  Oh  yes !  Of 
course  I  remember.  And  of  ag(( !  Well,  I 
never  thought  of  that.  Why,  she  must  be 
heiress  to  the  immense!  Dalton  iiroi)erty.  Of 
age,  and  still  at  school !  What's  her  name  ? 
I  really  ftnget  it,  and  it's  odd  too,  for,  after 
all,  she's  my  own  cousin,  in  spite  of  the 
short-eoinings  of  her  father  and — and  other 
people." 

"Yes,  Leon,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  "you're 
right.  She  is  your  own  cousin.  As  to  her 
father,  you  must  remenibei  how  I  have  al- 
ways said  that  he  was  innocent,  and  sinned 
against  rather  than  sinning.  Heaven  for- 
bid that  we  should  visit  on  this  poor  child 
the  disgrace  of  her  father,  when  ho  was  not 
guilty  at  all.  I  feel  confident,  Leon,  that 
you  will  espouse  her  cause  as  eagerly  as  I 
do;  and  since  I  am  ])revente(l  from  <loing 
any  tiling  by  this  infernal  gout,  I  look  to 
you  to  represent  mo  in  this  business,  and 
bring  that  infernal  scoundrel  to  justice." 


"  Infernal  scoundrel !  What  infernal 
scoundrel  f" 

"Whv,  this  Wiggins." 

"Wiggins?" 

"Yes.  The  madman  that  is  trying  to 
shut  up  Edith,  and  keep  her  under  lock  and 
key." 

"  Edith  !  Who's  Edith  ?  What,  Dalton's 
daughter?  Oh,  is  that  her  name?  But 
what  do  you  mean  ?  What  madman  ?  what 
h"'  and  key?" 

Jou  know  Wiggins,  don't  you?"  asked 
Sir  Lionel. 

"  Which  Wiggins  ?  There  are  several 
that  I  know — Wiggins  tlu;  sausage  man, 
Wiggins  the  rat-catcher,  Wig^" 

"I  mean  John  Wiggins,  of  John  Wiggins 
and  Company,  solicitors,  Liverpool.  You 
know  them  perfectly  well.  I  sent  you  there 
once." 

"  Yes,"  said  Leon,  slowly,  "  I  remember." 

"  What  s(nt  of  a  man  was  this  John  Wig- 
gins himself  when  you  saw  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  an  ordinary -looking  person — grave, 
quiot,  sensible,  cool  as  a  clock,  and  very  ret- 
iciMit.     I  told  you  all  about  him." 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  know  but  that  you 
might  remember  something  that  would 
throw  light  on  his  present  actions.  You 
went  there  to  ask  some  <iuesti(uis  in  my 
naino  with  reference  to  jioor  Dalton,  and  the 
disposal  of  his  property." 

"  Yes,  and  got  about  as  little  satisfaction 
as  one  could  get." 

"  He  was  not  communicative." 

"Not  at  all.  Every  answer  was  an  eva- 
sion. What  little  I  did  get  out  of  him  had 
to  be  dragged  out.  The  most  iin])(irtant 
questions  he  positively  refused  to  answer." 

"Of  course.  I  remember  all  that,  for  I 
was  the  one  who  wished  to  know,  and  con- 
se(|uently  his  n'fusal  to  answi^r  alfected  me 
most  of  all.  I  wondered  at  tin;  time,  and 
thought  that  it  might  be  some  quiet  plan 
of  his,  but  I  really  had  uo  idea  of  the  au- 
dacity of  his  plans." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Did  you  see  any  thing 
in  this  man  that  could  excite  tint  suspicion 
that  Iks  was  at  all  tliglity  or  insane  ?" 

"Insane!  Certainly  not.  He  was,  on  the 
contrary,  the  sanest  ])erson  I  ever  met  with." 

"  Well,  then,  he  must  have  become  insane 
since.  I've  no  doubt  that  he  has  for  years 
been  planning  to  get  control  of  the  Dalton 
property;  and  now,  when  he  has  become  in- 
sane, he  is  still  animati^d  by  tliis  ruling  pas- 
sion, and  has  gone  to  work  to  gratify  it  in 
this  mad  way." 

"  Mad  way  ?  What  mad  way  ?  I  don't 
understand." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  I  merely 
wished  to  get  your  unbiased  opinion  of  the 
man  first;"  and  upon  this  Sir  Lionel  told 
him  the  whole  story  which  Miss  Flymi)ton 
had  narrated  to  him.     To  all  this  Loon  list- 


¥ 


40 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


ened  with  the  deepest  interest  and  the  most 
profound  astonishment,  interrupting  his  fa- 
ther by  frequent  questions  and  exclama- 
tions. 

"  What  can  bo  liis  design  ?"  said  Leon. 
"He  must  have  some  iilau  in  his  head." 

"Plan?  a  mad  phiu  enough  I''  exclaimed 
Sir  Lionel.  '•  It  is  clearly  notliing  else  than 
an  attempt  to  get  control  of  the  property  by 
a  coup  (le  main," 

"  Well,  tlio  opinion  that  I  formed  of  Wig- 
gins is  that  he  is  altogether  too  sbrewd  and 
<leep  a  man  to  undertake  anything  without 
seeing  his  way  clear  to  success." 

"  Tlie  man's  mad!"  cried  Sir  Lionel.  "  How 
can  any  sane  nmu  hope  to  succeed  in  this  ? 
Why,  no  one  can  set  up  a  private  i)rison- 
liouse  in  that  style.  If  the  law  allowed  that, 
I  know  of  one  person  who  could  set  nj)  a 
private  jail,  and  keep  it  pretty  well  filled, 
too." 

"An  idea  strilccs  me,"  said  Leon,  "  wliich 
may  explain  this  on  other  grounds  than  mad- 
ness, and  which  is  quite  in  accordance  with 
Wiggins's  character.  Ho  has  been  the  agent 
of  the  estates  for  these  ten  years,  and  tliough 
lie  was  very  close  and  nncomnuinicative 
about  the  extent  of  his  powiirs  and  the  na- 
ture of  his  connection  with  Dalton,  yet  it  is 
evident  that  ho  has  had  Dalton's  confidence 
to  the  highest  degree ;  and  I  think  that  be- 
fore Dalton's  unfortunate  business  he  must 
Ihavo  had  some  intiuonce  over  him.  Perliiips 
ho  has  persuaded  Dalton  to  make  him  tlio 
guardian  of  his  daughter." 

"  Well,  what  good  would  that  do  ?"  asked 
Sir  Lionel. 

"  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  the  law 
of  guardianship  f" 

"  Not  much." 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me,  from  what  I  have 
heard,  that  a  guardian  has  a  great  many  very 
peculiar  rights.  He  stands  in  <a  father's  place. 
He  can  choose  snch  society  for  his  ward  as 
he  likes,  and  can  shut  her  up,  just  as  a  father 
might.  In  this  instance  Wiggins  may  bo 
standing  on  his  rights,  and  the  knowledge 
of  this  may  be  the  reason  why  ho  defied  you 
80  insolently." 

Sir  Lionel  looked  annoyed,  and  was  silent 
for  a  few  moments. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  he ;  "I  don't  be- 
lieve any  thing  of  the  kind.  I  don't  beliovo 
any  law  will  allow  a  man  to  exercise  such  con- 
trol over  another  just  because  he  or  she  is  a 
minor.  Besides,  even  if  it  were  so,  Edith  is 
of  ago,  and  this  restraint  can  not  be  kejit  up. 
What  good  would  it  do,  then,  for  him  to  im- 
prison her  for  three  or  four  months  ?  At  the 
end  of  that  time  she  must  escape  from  his 
control.  Besides,  even  on  the  ground  that 
he  is  in  loco  jMrcofis,  you  must  remember 
that  there  are  limits  even  to  a  father's  au- 
thority. I  doubt  whether  even  a  father 
wonld  bo  allowed  to  imprison  a  daughter 
without  cause." 


"But  this  imprisonment  may  only  be  a 
restriction  within  the  grounds.  The  law  can 
not  prevent  that.  Oh,  the  fact  is,  this  guard- 
ianship law  is  a  very  (lueer  thing,  and  wo 
shall  find  that  Wiggins  has  as  much  right 
over  her  as  if  he  were  her  father.  So  wo 
nnist  go  to  work  carefully ;  and  my  idea  is 
that  it  wonld  be  best  to  see  him  first  of  all, 
before  we  do  any  thing,  so  as  to  see  how  it  is." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  "wo  can 
force  him  to  show  by  what  right  he  controls 
her  liberty.  The  law  of  guardianship  can 
not  override  the  hahcdH  corpus  act,  and  the 
liberty  of  the  snbject  is  provided  for,  after 
all.  If  wo  once  get  Edith  out  of  his  control, 
it  will  be  difficult  for  him  to  get  her  back 
again,  even  if  the  law  did  decide  in  his  favor. 
Still  I  think  there  is  a  good  deal  in  what  you 
soy,  and  it  certainly  is  best  not  to  be  too 
hasty  about  it.  An  irterview  with  him, 
first  of  all,  will  be  decidedly  the  best  thing. 
I  think,  before  going  there,  yon  had  better 
see  my  solicitors  in  London.  Yon  see  I  in- 
trust the  management  of  this  affair  to  you, 
Leon,  for  this  infernal  gout  ties  nu'  up  here 
closer  than  poor  Edith  at  Dalton  Hall.  Yon 
had  better  set  about  it  at  once.  Go  first  to 
London,  see  my  solicitors,  find  out  about  the 
law  of  guardianship,  and  also  see  what  we 
had  better  do.  Then,  if  they  apjirove  of 
it,  go  to  Dalton  Hall  and  see  Wiggins.  I 
don't  think  that  you  are  the  sort  of  man  who 
can  be  turned  back  at  the  gates  by  that  ruf- 
fian porter.  You  must  also  write  me  wheat 
the  solicitors  say,  for  I  think  I  had  better 
keep  Miss  Plympton  informed  about  the 
progress  of  affairs,  partly  to  satisfy  her  anxi- 
ety, and  partly  to  prevent  her  from  taking 
any  independent  action  which  may  embar- 
rass our  course  of  conduct." 


CHAPTER  XL 

LUCY. 

Anorr  a  week  after  the  conversation  de- 
tailed in  the  last  chapter,  the  train  stopped 
at  tho  littlo  station  near  Dalton  village,  and 
Leon  Dudleigh  stepped  out.  At  the  same 
time  a  woman  got  out  of  another  carriage 
in  tho  train.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  and 
a  crap*  veil  concealed  her  face.  Leon  Dud- 
leigh stood  and  looked  about  for  a  few  mo- 
ments in  search  of  some  vehicle  in  which  to 
complete  his  journey,  and  as  the  train  went 
on  he  walked  into  the  littlo  statioii-houso 
to  make  inquiries.  Tiio  woman  followed 
slowly.  After  exchanging  a  few  words  with 
tho  ticket  clerk,  Leon  found  out  that  no 
vehicle  was  to  bo  had  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  with  an  exclamation  of  impatience  ho 
told  tho  clerk  that  ho  supposed  he?  would 
have  to  walk,  and  at  tho  same  time  asked 
him  some  questions  about  getting  his  lug- 
gage forwarded  to  tho  inn  at  Dalton.    Hav- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


41 


ay  only  he  a 

The  law  can 

IS,  this  giiard- 

hiiig,  and  wo 

9  much  right 
ithtT.  So  wo 
ul  my  idea  is 
in  first  of  all, 
see  how  it  is." 
nel,  "  we  can 
lit  he  controls 
•dianship  can 

act,  and  tho 
ded  for,  after 
)f  his  control, 

get  her  hack 
e  in  his  favor. 
1  in  what  you 
lot  to  be  too 
w  with  him, 

10  best  thing. 
Ill  had  better 
You  see  I  in- 
aftair  to  you, 
'8  me  up  liere 
m  Hall.  You 
).  Go  lii'st  to 
out  about  tho 

800  what  we 
■f  apjuove  of 

0  \Vi^;;ins.  I 
rt  of  man  who 
'8  by  that  ruf- 
rite  me  what 
I  had  better 
d  about  tilt! 
isfy  her  anxi- 

from  taking 

1  may  embar- 


versation  de- 
train stopped 
u  village,  and 

At  the  titime 
ther  carriage 
in  black,  a  lid 
Leon  Dud- 
for  a  few  mo- 
c  ill  which  to 
ho  train  went 
station-house 
nan  followed 
w  words  with 

out  that  uo 
leighborhood, 
tupatienco  ho 
icd  ho  would 
I'  time  asked 
ting  his  lug- 
>alton.     Hav- 


"AT   THAT    MOMENT   THE    WOMAN    KA18EI)    HKK    VJilL, 


ing  received  a  satisfactory  answer,  ho 
turned  to  tho  door  and  walked  toward  tlio 
"village. 

Tho  woman  who  bad  followed  him  into 
the  station-house  had  already  left  it,  and  was 
walking  along  tho  road  ahead  of  him.  She 
was  walking  at  a  slow  pace,  and  before  h-ig 
Leon  camo  up  with  her.  Ho  had  not  no- 
ticed her  particularly,  and  was  now  about 
passing  her,  when  at  that  very  moment  tho 
M'oman  raised  her  veil,  and  turned  about  so 
as  to  face  him. 

At  tho  sight  of  her  face  Leon  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  amazement  and  started  back. 

"  Lucy !"  ho  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  deep 
and  bitter  vexation. 

"Aha,  Leon!"  said  tho  woman,  with  a 
smile.  "You  thought  you  would  give  me 
tho  slip.  You  didn't  know  what  u  watch 
I  was  keoping  over  you." 

At  this  Leon  regarded  her  in  gloomy  si- 
lence, while  tho  expression  of  deep  vexation 
remained  unchanged  on  his  face. 

The  wcnnan  who  had  thus  followed  him 
was  certainly  not  one  who  ought  to  inspire 
any  thing  like  vexation.    Her  face  was  beau- 


tiful in  outline  and  expression.  Her  eyes 
were  dark  and  aninuited,  her  tone  and 
manner  indicated  good-breeding  and  refine- 
ment, though  these  were  sonuiwhat  more 
vivacious  than  is  common  with  English  la- 
dies. 

"I  don't  SCO  what  brought  you  here," 
said  Leon  at  last. 

"  I  might  say  tho  same  of  yon,  «io»i  eher," 
replied  the  lady;  "but  I  have  a  faint  idea, 
and  I  have  no  desire  to  give  you  too  much 
liberty." 

"  It's  some  more  of  your  confounded  jeal- 
ousy," said  Leon,  angrily.  "My  business 
hero  is  a  very  delicate  one  indeed.  I  may 
have  to  do  it  incognito,  and  it  may  ruin  all 
if  I  have  any  one  hero  who  knows  ini;." 

"  Incognito  ?"  said  tho  lady.  "  That  will 
bo  charming;  and  if  so,  who  can  help  you 
better  than  If  I  can  bo  your  mother,  or  your 
grandmother,  or  your  business  partner,  or 
any  thing.  You  ought  to  have  insisted  on 
my  accompanying  you." 

Tho  liglit  tone  of  raillery  in  which  this 
was  spoken  did  not  in  any  way  mollify  the 
chagrin  of  the  other,  who  still  looked  at  hor 


42 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


with  a  frown,  and  as  she  ended,  growled 
out, 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  got  on  my  track, 
confound  it !" 

"Notliiiig  easier,"  said  the  lady.  "You 
didn't  take  any  ])ains  to  hide  your  traeks." 

"  But  I  told  you  I  was  going  back  to  Dud- 
leigh." 

"I  know  you  did,  mon  chvr;  hut  do  you 
think  I  believed  you  ?" 

"  I  don't  sec  how  you  followed  me,"  said 
Leon  again. 

"Well,  I  don't  intend  to  let  you  know  all 
my  resources,"  said  the  lady,  with  a  smile, 
"  ibr  fear  you  will  bailie  me  some  other  time. 
But  now  come,  don't  let  yourself  get  into  a 
passion.  Look  at  me,  and  see  how  good- 
natured  and  8weet-tenii)ered  I  am.  Your 
reception  of  me  is  really  cputo  heart-rending, 
ami  I  have  a  great  mind  to  go  back  again 
at  once  and  leave  you." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  Leon,  rudely. 

"  But  I  won't,"  said  the  lady.  "  So  come, 
be  yourself  again,  for  you  can  be  sweet-tem- 
pered if  you  only  try  hard,  you  know." 

"  Now  see  hero,  Lucy,"  said  Leon,  sternly, 
"yon  don't  know  what  you're  doing.  It's 
all  very  well  to  pass  it  off  as  a  frolic,  but  it 
won't  do.  This  business  of  mine  is  too  se- 
rious to  admit  of  trilling.  If  it  were  my 
own  aftair,  I  wouldn't  care ;  and  oven  if  I 
didn't  want  you,  I  shouhl  submit  with  a 
good  grace.  But  this  is  a  matter  of  extreme 
delicacy,  and  my  father  has  sent  me  here  be- 
cause he  was  unable  to  come  himself.  It  is 
a — a  law  matter.  I  went  to  London  merely 
to  see  the  solicitors.  I  didn't  tell  a  soul 
about  my  business,  and  I  thought  that  no 
one  knew  I  was  coming  hero  except  my  fa- 
ther and  the  solicitors." 

"  Well,  but  I'm  always  an  exception,  you 
know,"  said  the  lady,  pleasantly. 

"  Oh,  see  here,  now,"  said  the  other,  "  it's 
all  v(Ty  well  for  you  to  meddle  with  my  own 
affairs;  but  you  are  now  fiu'cing  yourself 
into  the  midst  of  the  concerns  of  others — 
the  business  att'iiirs  of  two  great  estates.  I 
must  attend  to  this  alone." 

"  Mon  vher"  siiid  the  lady,  with  unalter- 
able placidity,  "  business  is  not  one  of  your 
strong  points.  You  really  .'iro  not  fit  to 
manage  .any  important  matter  .alone.  At 
Dudleigh  you  have  your  papa  to  advise 
with,  at  London  your  papa's  solicitors,  and 
here  at  Dalton  you  need  a  sound  adviser 
too.  Now  is  there  any  one  in  whom  you 
could  put  greater  confidence,  or  who  could 
give  you  better  advice  on  innumerable  mat- 
ters, than  the  unworthy  being  who  now  ad- 
dresses you  ?  Come,  don't  keep  up  the  sulks 
any  longer.  They  are  not  beconnng  to  your 
style  of  be.auty.  For  my  part,  I  never  sulk. 
If  you  will  reileet  for  a  moment,  you  will 
see  that  it  is  really  a  great  advantage  for 
you  to  have  with  you  oue  so  sngacious  and 
shrewd  as  I  am ;  and  now  that  the  lirst  mo- 


ment of  irritation  has  passed,  I  trust  you 
will  look  upon  my  humble  otler  of  service 
with  more  pro]>itious  eyes." 

Something  in  these  words  seemed  to  strike 
Leon  favorably,  for  the  vexation  passed  away 
fnun  his  face,  and  he  stood  looking  thought- 
fully at  tin?  grouiul,  which  ho  was  mechan- 
ically smootliing  over  with  his  foot.  The 
lady  said  no  nuire,  but  watched  him  attent- 
ively, in  silence,  waiting  to  seo  the  result 
of  his  ])resent  meditations. 

"Well,"  said  ho  .at  last,  "I  don't  know 
but  that  something  may  arise  in  this  busi- 
ness, Lucy,  in  which  you  m.ay  be  able  to  do 
something — though  what  it  nuiy  be  I  can 
not  tell  just  now." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  lady,  "  if  you  re.ally 
.are  thinking  of  an  incognito,  my  services 
may  be  of  the  utnu^st  importance." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  said  Leon. 

"  But  whether  the  incognito  is  advis.ablo 
or  not  should  first  bo  seen.  Now  if  you 
would  honor  mo  with  your  conlidenco  to 
over  80  small  an  extent,  I  could  otter  an  opin- 
ion on  that  point  which  might  be  worth  hav- 
ing. And  I  will  set  yon  a  good  example  by 
giving  you  my  coniidence.  Frankly,  then, 
the  only  reason  why  I  followed  you  was  be- 
cause I  found  out  that  there  was  a  lady  in 
the  case." 

"  So  that's  it,  is  it  ?"  said  Leon,  looking  at 
her  curiously. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lady.  "  And  I  heard  th.at 
yonr  father  sent  you,  and  that  you  had  been 
talking  with  his  s(dicitors.  Now  as  you  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  doing  business  with  your 
father,  or  talking  with  his  solicitors,  the 
thing  struck  me  very  forcibly ;  and  as  there 
was  a  lady — in  fact,  a  rich  heiress — in  the 
case,  and  as  you  .are  frightfully  in  debt,  I 
concluded  that  it  would  bo  well  for  me  to 
see  how  the  business  proceeded ;  for  I  some- 
times do  not  have  that  confidence  in  you, 
Leon,  which  I  should  like  to  have." 

This  was  spoken  in  a  serious  and  mourn- 
ful voice  which  was  totally  ditt'erent  from 
the  tone  of  raillery  in  which  she  had  .at  first 
indulged.  As  she  concluded  she  fixed  her 
eyes  sadly  on  Leon,  and  he  saw  that  they 
were  suft'used  with  tears. 

"  You  preposterous  little  goose!"  said  Leon. 
"There  never  was  a  wilder,  a  sillier,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  more  utterly  groundless  fan- 
cy than  this.  Why,  to  begin  with,  the  lady  is 
my  cousin." 

"  I  know,"  said  the  lady,  sadly. 

"  It  seems  to  mo  you  found  out  every  thing, 
though  how  the  deuce  you  contrived  it  is 
more  than  I  can  toll,"  said  Leon. 

"  Our  fjieulties  .aro  very  much  sh.arpened 
where  our  interests  are  concerned,"  said  the 
lady,  sententiously. 

"Now,  see  here,"  said  Leon.  "It  is  true 
that  this  lady  is  my  cousin,  and  that  she  is 
an  heiress,  and  that  I  am  infia-nally  hard  up, 
and  that  my  father  sent  me  here,  and  that  I 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


43 


,  I  triiHt  you 
er  of  service 

iiu'd  to  strike 

1  |t!lH.S('(l  iiwiiy 

;iii{i;  thouf^lit- 
was  iiiec'liaii- 
is  foot.  The 
1  him  atteiit- 
!0  the  result 

[  don't  know 

in  this  busi- 

be  able  to  do 

nay  bo  I  can 

'  if  you  really 
,  my  servicea 
iico." 

"  said  Leon. 
)  is  advisable 
Now  if  you 
eonlideneo  to 
I  otVer  an  opin- 
be  worth  hav- 
)d  example  by 
L-'rankly,  then, 
d  yon  was  be- 
was  a  lady  in 

!on,  looking  at 

id  I  heard  that 
you  had  been 
ow  as  you  art^ 
ss  with  your 
solicitors,  the 
aid  as  there 
tress — in  the 
lly  in  debt,  I 
ell  for  me  to 
for  I  some- 
denco  in  you, 
ive." 

Hid  mourn- 
dirt'erent  from 
le  had  at  first 
she  iixed  her 
aw  that  they 


lie 


h 


ae!"  said  Leon, 
sillier,  and  at 
iroundless  fan- 
ith,  the  lady  is 

[lly. 

it  every  thing, 

ontrived  it  is 

on. 

K'h  sharpened 

ned,"  said  the 

"  It  is  true 
nd  that  she  is 
nally  hard  up, 
ire,  and  that  I 


have  been  talking  with  the  solicitors;  but  I 
swear  to  you  the  subject  of  marriage  has  not 
once  been  mentioned." 

"  Hut  only  thought  of,"  suggested  the 
other. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  i)ei)- 
ple's  thoughts,"  said  Leon.  "If  you  go  into 
that  styhi  of  thing,  I  give  up.  IJy-the-way, 
you  know  so  nuieh,  that  I  suppose  you  know 
the  lady's  name." 

"Ohyes:  Miss  Dalton— Edith  Dalton." 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  Leon.  "  Well,  I 
confess  I'm  mystified.  How  yon  could  have 
found  out  all  this  is  utterly  beyond  me." 

"  So  you  have  no  idea  of  matrimony,  moii 
cherf  said  the  lady,  attempting  to  use  ii 
sprightly  tone,  but  looking  at  him  with  a 
glance  so  earnest  that  it  showed  what  im- 
portaiK'O  she  attached  to  his  reply. 

Leon  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
at  the  ground.  At  last  he  burst  forth  iin- 
patieiifly : 

"Oh,  confound  it  all!  what's  the  use  of 
harping  forevc^r  on  oni!  string,  and  putting  a 
fellow  in  a  corner  all  the  time  ?  You  insist 
on  holding  an  iiuiuisition  about  thoughts 
and  intfiitioiis.  How  do  I  know  any  thing 
about  tliat  ?  You  may  examine  me  about 
facts  if  you  choose,  but  you  haven't  any  busi- 
ness to  ask  any  thing  more." 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is  rather  unfair,"  said 
the  lady  in  a  sweet  voice,  "to  force  one  to 
explain  all  one's  thoughts  and  intentions; 
so,  mon  chcr,  let's  cry  (piits.  At  any  rate, 
you  receive  me  for  your  ally,  your  advis- 
er, y(nir  guide,  pliilosoi>her,  and  friend.  If 
von  want  incognitos  or  disguises,  come  to 
me." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  must,"  said  Leon,  "since 
you  are  here,  and  won't  go ;  and  perhaps  you 
may  yet  be  really  useful,  but — " 

"  Ibit  at  first  I  ought  to  know  what  the 
present  condition  is  of  this  '  business'  of 
yours." 

"Oh,  I've  no  objection  to  tell  you  now, 
since  you  know  so  much ;  in  fact,  I  believe 
you  know  all,  as  it  is." 

"Well,  not  ((uite  all." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Leon,  "  if  we're 
going  to  talk  over  this  matter  any  further, 
wo  might  find  some  better  place  than  the 
middle  of  a  public  road.  Let  me  see,"  he 
continued,  looking  all  around — "  where  shall 
we  go  ?" 

As  li(^  looked  around  his  eyes  caught  sight 
of  the  little  river  that  How<>d  near,  on  its 
course  through  Dalton  to  tht!  Bristol  Chan- 
nel. iSoine  trees  grew  on  the  margin,  and 
beneatli  them  was  some  grass.  It  was  not 
more  than  twenty  yards  away. 

"Suppose  we  sit  there  by  the  river,"  said 
Leon,  "and  we  can  talk  it  over." 

The  lady  nodded,  and  the  two  walked  to 
the  river  margin. 


SUE    WAS   SKATED    NEAK   THE    WINDOW. 


CHAPTKR  XII. 

A    SOL K MX    API'KAL. 

A  FEW  days  passed  away  in  Dalton  Hall, 
and  Edith  l)egan  to  niKhrstand  perfectly 
the  nature  of  tlie  restraint  to  which  she  was 
subjected.  That  restraint  involved  noth- 
ing of  the  nature  of  violence.  No  rudo 
or  uncivil  word  was  spoken  to  her.  Wig- 
gins and  Mrs.  Diinltar  hail  proft^ssed  even 
allectiou  for  her,  and  the  two  servants  n(ner 
failed  to  be  as  respectful  as  tli(\y  could.  Her 
restraint  was  a  certain  environment,  so  as  to 
l)r(!vent  her  from  leaving  tlu^  park  grounds. 
She  felt  walled  in  by  a  liarricr  whidi  she 
could  not  pass,  but  within  this  barrier  lib- 
erty of  movement  was  allowed.  At  the  sanm 
time,  she  knew  tliat  she  was  watciied  ;  and 
since  her  first  discovery  of  Hugo  on  her  track, 
she  felt  surt!  that  if  she  ever  went  any  where 
he  would  stealthily  follow,  and  not  allow 
her  to  go  out  of  sight.  Wliefher  lie  would 
lift  his  hand  to  i)revent  actual  esca])e,  if  the 
chance  should  present  itself,  was  a  thing 
which  she  could  not  answer,  nor  did  she  feel 
inclined  to  try  it  as  yet. 

During  tin*  few  days  that  followed  her 
first  menioralile  experience  she  made  no  fiir- 
tlier  attempt  to  escape,  or  even  to  si'arch 
out  a  way  of  escape.  What  liad  become  of 
Miss  l'lyin[)ton  she  did  not  know,  and  could 
only  imagine.  Slie  still  indulged  the  hope, 
however,  that  Miss  I'lympton  was  at  Dalton, 
and  looked  forward  with  confidence  to  s(!0 
her  coming  to  Dalton  Hall,  acconi]ianied  by 
the  otlicers  of  tlie  law,  to  effect  her  deliver- 
ance. It  was  this  hope  that  now  sustained 
her,  and  prevented  her  from  sinking  into 
despair. 

Of  Wiggins  during  these  few  days  she  saw 
nothing  more  than  a  distant  glimpse.     She 


44 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


roninined  in  tlie  room  which  she  first  oncii- 
])i(ul  (luriiifj  the  j^rciitcr  part  of  this  time. 
Nor  <1i<l  nIk)  Net-  iinich  of  Mrs.  Dunbar.  From 
an  occnHJonul  roniaric  h\ui  (gathered  that  hIio 
waH  cli'aninK  the  drawing-room  or  (hiHting 
it;  l)nt  in  tiiiH  Edith  now  took  no  intcn-Ht 
whatever.  The  Hall  was  now  n  prison- 
houHe,  and  tlie  few  planH  which  hIiu  had 
b(!en  making  at  lirHt  w«'re  now  tlirown  aside 
and  forgotten,  Mrn.  Dunbar  brought  her 
lier  meals  at  regular  intervalH,  but  Edith 
never  took  tlie  slighteHt  notice  of  her.  She 
could  not  help  observing  at  times  in  Mrs. 
Dinibar's  manner,  and  especially  in  her  look, 
u  whole  world  of  sorrowful  symi»athy,  but 
after  her  unmistakuble  championship  of 
Wiggins,  she  could  not  feel  tb«  slightest 
confidence  in  her. 

At  length  one  morning  Wiggins  once  more 
called  upon  her.  She  was  seated  near  the 
window  when  she  heard  a  knock.  The  door 
was  already  open,  and  turning,  she  saw  Wig- 
gins. She  bowed  slightly,  but  said  nothing, 
and  Wiggins  bowed  in  return,  after  which 
he  entered  an'^  o^uted  himself,  fixing  his  sol- 
emn eyes  upon  her  in  his  ns\ial  way. 

"  It  is  11  matter  of  great  regret,"  said  he, 
"that  I  am  forced  to  give  pain  to  one  for 
whom  I  entertain  so  much  kindness,  and 
even,  let  me  add,  affection.  Had  you  made 
ycmr  return  to  this  place  a  little  less  abrupt- 
ly, you  would  have  found,  I  am  sure,  a  dif- 
ferent reception,  and  your  position  would 
have  been  leas  unpleasant." 

"Would  yon  have  allowed  mo  my  lib- 
erty," asked  Edith,  "  and  the  society  of  my 
friends,  if  I  had  delayed  longer  before  my 
return  ?  If  so,  let  mo  go  back  now,  and  I 
will  give  you  notice  before  coming  hero 
again." 

Wiggins  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  I  am  one,"  said  he, "  who  has  had  deeper 
sorrows  than  usually  fall  to  the  lot  of  man  ; 
yet  none,  I  assure  you — no,  not  one — has  ever 
causetl  mo  more  pain  than  my  iirosont  false 
position  toward  you.  Can  you  not  place 
some  confidence  in  mo,  and  think  that  this 
is  all  for — for  your  good  ?" 

"  You  speak  so  plaintively,"  said  Edith, 
"that  I  should  be  touched,  if  your  words 
were  not  belied  by  your  acts.  What  do  you 
think  can  compensate  for  the  loss  of  liberty  ? 
Were  you  ever  imprisoned  ?  Did  you  ever 
have  a  jailer  over  you  I  Did  you  ever  know 
what  it  was  to  be  shut  in  with  wjiUs  over 
which  yon  could  not  i)as8,  and  to  know  that 
the  jail,  .'s  eyes  were  always  upon  you  f 
W^ait  till  yon  have  felt  all  this,  and  then 
you  will  understand  how  empty  and  idle  all 
your  present  words  must  be." 

While  she  said  these  words  Wiggins  sat 
as  if  he  had  been  turned  to  stone.  His  eyes 
were  fixed  on  her  with  a  look  of  utter  hor- 
ror. His  hands  trembled.  As  she  stopped 
he  shuddered,  and  hastily  looked  behind 
Lim.    Then  another  shudder  passed  through 


him.  At  last,  with  a  violent  effort,  he  recov- 
ered something  of  his  f(n'mer  calm. 

"God  grant,"  said  he,  "that  yon  may 
never  know  what  I  have  known  of  all  that 
which  you  now  mention!" 

His  voice  trembled  as  he  spoke  these 
words,  and  when  he  had  said  them  he  re- 
lapsed into  silence. 

"Since  yon  have  invcdied  the  name  of  the 
Deity,"  said  Edith,  solenndy,  "if  yon  have 
any  reverence  for  your  Maker,  I  ask  yon 
now,  in  His  name,  by  what  right  yon  keep 
me  here." 

"I  am  your — guardian,"  said  Wiggins, 
8h)wly  ;  "your — guardian;  yes,"  he  added, 
thoughtfully,  "  that  is  the  word." 

"  My  guardian !  Who  made  you  my  guard- 
ian T  Who  had  the  right  to  put  you  over 
me  T" 

Wiggins   paused,  and   raised    his    head, 

j  which  had  been  bent  forward  for  a  few  mo- 

I  nieiits  past,  looked  at  Edith  with  a  softer 

;  light  in  his  solenni  eyes,  and  said,  in  a  low 

voice,  which  had  a  wonderful  sweetness  in 

its  intonation, 

"  Your  father." 

Edith  looked  at  him  earnestly  for  a  mo- 
ment, affected  in  spite  of  hersidf  by  his  look 
and  by  his  voice ;  but  suddenly  the  remem- 
brance of  her  wn.ngs  drove  oil'  completely 
her  momentary  emotion. 

"Do  you  think  my  father  would  have 
made  you  my  guardian,"  said  she, "  if  he  had 
8usj)ected  what  you  were  going  to  do  with 
me  f ' 

"  I  solemnly  assure  you  that  ho  did  know, 
and  that  he  did  approve." 

At  this  Edith  smiled.  Wiggins  now 
seemed  too  methodical  for  a  madman,  and 
sho  began  to  understand  that  he  was  assum- 
ing these  solemn  airs,  so  as  to  make  au  im- 
pression upon  her.  Having  made  up  her 
mind  to  this,  she  determined  to  question 
him  further,  so  as  to  see  what  more  he  pro- 
posed to  do. 

"Your  father,"  said  Wiggins,  "was  my 
friend ;  and  I  will  do  for  you  whatever  I 
would  have  done  for  him." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  of  that,"  said  Edith. 
"  Indeed,  you  are  doing  for  me  now  precise- 
ly what  I  have  reason  to  understand  you 
did  for  him." 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  you,"  said  Wiggins. 

"It  is  of  no  consequence,"  said  Edith. 
"  Wo  will  lot  it  pass.  Lot  us  return  to  the 
subject.  You  assert  that  you  are  my  guard- 
ian. Does  that  give  you  the  right  to  bo  my 
jailer — to  confine  mo  here,  to  cut  me  off 
from  all  my  friends  V 

"You  use  harsh  words,"  said  Wiggins; 
"  but  nevertheless  it  is  a  fact  that  the  law 
does  allow  the  guardian  this  power.  It  re- 
gards him  in  the  place  of  a  parent.  All  that 
a  father  can  do,  a  gu.ardian  can  do.  As  a 
father  can  restrain  a  child,  so  can  a  guard- 
ian, if  bo  deems  such  restraint  necessary. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


45 


t  bo  (lid  kuow, 


said  Wisgiiis- 

"  said  Edith. 

return  to  tlie 

are  my  guard- 

riglit  to  bo  my 

to  cut  mo  off 


Moreover,  if  tbo  ward  should  escape,  the  law 
will  baud  him  back  to  bis  guardian,  just  as 
it  would  hand  back  a  child  to  its  t'atlier." 

Not  one  word  of  this  did  Edith  btlicve, 
and  HO  it  made  no  impression.  Having  al- 
ready got  tbo  idea  in  her  mind  that  Wij^jjins 
was  niehxlramatic,  ami  playing  a  part,  she 
bad  no  doubt  that  his  words  would  be  reg- 
uhited  by  the  same  desire  that  /governed  bis 
acts,  and  would  be  spoken  exclusively  witli 
the  view  of  producing  an  impression  upon 
herself.  She  therefore  looked  at  him  fith 
unchanged  feelinjjfs, and  instantly  replied: 

"It  would  bo  very  fortunate  for  you  if  it 
were  so,  but  for  my  part  I  think  better  of 
the  law.  At  the  same  tin\e,  Hinc«?  you  claim 
all  this  authority  over  nm,  I  should  like  to 
know  how  long  you  think  this  power  will 
last.  You  do  not  seem  to  think  that  I  am 
of  age." 

"  That  matters  not,"  said  Wiggins.  "  My 
control  over  the  estates  and  my  guardian- 
ship over  you  are  of  such  a  nature  that  they 
can  not  cease  till  your  marriage." 

"Oh,  then,"  said  Edith,  "according  to 
that,  I  ought  to  try  to  get  married  as  soon 
as  possible.  And  this,  I  suppose,  is  your 
sole  reason  for  shutting  mo  up  ?" 

Wiggins  said  nothing,  but  sat  looking 
gloomily  at  her. 

By  his  last  words  Edith  now  found  what 
appeared  to  her  a  clow  to  his  whole  plan. 
He  was,  or  pretended  to  be,  her  guardian ; 
he  had  been  appointed,  or  pretended  to  have 
been  appointed,  by  her  father.  It  might 
have  been  so.  Edith  could  well  iniagino 
bow  in  previous  years  ho  had  made  this  false 
friend  his  executor  and  the  guardian  of  his 
child;  and  then,  in  the  anguish  of  the  trial 
and  of  the  punishment,  forgotten  to  annul 
the  deed ;  or  Wiggins  may  have  forged  the 
document  himself.  If  he  really  was  tlio 
false  friend  who  had  betrayed  her  father, 
and  who  had  committed  that  forgery  for 
which  her  father  innocently  suflered,  then 
he  might  easily  forgo  such  a  document  as 
this  in  her  father's  name. 

Such  was  her  conclusion  from  his  words, 
though  she  did  not  think  lit  to  say  as  much 
to  him.  What  she  did  say,  however,  seemed 
to  have  aft'ected  him,  for  ho  did  not  speak 
for  some  time. 

"  You  have  no  conception,"  said  ho  at 
length,  "  of  the  tonnent  that  some  of  yo)ir 
careless  words  cause.  You  do  iu)t  know 
what  you  do,  or  what  you  say.  There  is 
sometliing  that  I  can  not  tell,  whatevor  bo 
the  price  of  silence — something  that  con- 
cerns you  and  mo,  aud  your  father,  and  two 
great  houses — and  it  is  this  that  makes  mo 
dnmb,  and  forces  mo  to  stand  in  this  false 
position.  You  look  upon  mo  as  the  crafty, 
scheming  steward — one  who  is  your  pitiless 
jailer — and  I  have  to  bear  it.  Hut  there  is 
something  which  I  can  say — and  I  warn 
you,  or  rather  I  implore  you,  not  to  disbo- 


lievo  me ;  I  entreat  you  to  let  my  words 
have  some  weight.  I  declare  to  you,  then, 
by  all  tliat  is  most  sacred  among  men,  that 
this  restraint  whi(!h  I  ask  you  tr)  undergo  is 
out  of  no  selfish  di^sire,  no  avarice,  no  lack 
of  honor  for  you,  aud  —  aiVectiou,  but  be- 
cause of  a  plan  which  I  have,  the  success 
of  which  concerns  all  of  us,  and  yon  not  the 
least." 

Edith  listened  to  this  witliout  emotion, 
though  at  another  time  the  solenmity  of  such 
an  ajipeal  could  not  have  failed  to  enforce 
belief.  Hut  now  Wiggins  seemed  only  mel- 
odramatic, and  every  word  seemed  false. 

"  What  plan  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  is  this,"  said  Wiggins,  looking  all 
around  with  his  usual  cautions  vigihuu;e, 
and  drawing  nearer  to  her.  "  Your  father's 
name  is  a  dishonored  oiui — the  name  you 
bear  is  covered  with  the  stain  of  infamy. 
What  would  you  not  give  if  his  mi'mory 
could  be  redeemed  from  wrong ;  if  even  at 
this  late  hour  his  cliara(!ter  could  be  vindi- 
cated f  You  have,  I  am  sure,  a  noble  and 
a  devoted  heart.  You  wouhl  be  willing  to 
do  nnicli  for  this.  Hut  what  I  ask  of  you  is 
very  little.  I  ask  only  silenct!  and  s<;clusion. 
If  you  should  consent  to  this,  my  work  may 
be  done  before  very  long ;  and  then,  whi.t- 
ever  may  be  your  feelings  toward  nu»,  I  shall 
feel  that  I  h.avo  done  my  work,  and  nothing 
ftirther  that  this  world  may  (h),  whether  of 
good  or  evil,  shall  bo  able  to  att'ect  me.  I 
ask  this — more,  I  entreat  it  of  you,  I  im- 
l)loro  you,  in  the  sacred  imme  of  an  injured 
father,  by  all  his  unnu-rited  wrongs  and  suf- 
ferings, to  unite  with  me  in  this  holy  pur- 
pose, and  help  me  to  accomplish  it.  Do  not 
be  deceived  by  appearances.  Heiievo  me,  I 
entreat  you,  for  your  father's  8ak(^" 

Never  were  words  spoken  with  greater 
apparent  earnestness  than  these ;  and  never 
was  any  voice  or  manner  more  soh-nui  and 
impressive.  Yet  upon  Edith  no  more  efleet 
was  produced  than  before.  When  she  had 
asked  him  what  his  plan  was,  she  had  been 
prepared  for  this,  or  souu'tliing  like  it.  She 
saw  now  that  the  mode  by  which  he  tried 
t'>  work  upon  her  was  by  adopting  the  sol- 
0.  u  and  the  pathetic  style.  The  conse- 
quoi.oo  was  that  every  gesture,  every  into- 
nation, every  look,  seemed  artificial,  hollow, 
and  insincere.  For  never  could  she-forget 
the  one  fatal  fact  that  this  was  her  jailer, 
and  that  she  was  a  helph'ss  prisoner.  More 
than  this,  he  h.ad  as  good  as  asserted  his  in- 
tention of  keeping  her  a  prisoner  till  her 
marriage,  which,  umler  such  circumstances, 
meant  simply  till  her  death.  Not  for  one 
instant  could  he  bo  brought  to  consent  to 
relax  the  strictness  of  his  control  over  her. 
For  such  a  man  to  nuike  such  an  appeal  as 
this  was  idle ;  and  she  found  herself  won- 
dering, before  lio  had  got  half  through,  why 
he  should  take  the  trouble  to  try  to  deceive 
her.    When  ho  had  finished  she  did  not  caro 


4G 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


to  answer  liiin,  or  to  tc^ll  him  wlint  wuh  on  her 
mind.  Slie  was  rvpi-ho  to  ((iiarrclH,  HccncH,  or 
any  tliiiij;  ii|i|>roa('hin;r  to  Hcoldiiif^  ort^nipty 
tlm-atH.  What  Mho  did  Hay,  then  foro,  wafl 
IMTt'cclly  coninioniilac'c,  hut  for  that  reaNon 
I)erha]>H  all  tint  nioro  diHa]i]i()inting  to  tho 
man  win.  had  iiiadf  hucIi  an  a]i])('al  to  hfr. 

"What  yon  May,"'  Haid  hIic,  "docs  not  ro- 
qnirc  any  anHWor.  It  is  hh  thon;;ii  I  Hlionld 
awk  yon  t(j  Hnhinit  to  inii)riN()iinu'nt  tor  an 
indefinite  period,  or  for  life,  for  inHtance,  for 
tlmsakeofa  friend.  And  yon  would  not 
think  Hneli  a  reijiU'Ht  very  reawonahle.  What 
I  niqniro  of  you  is,  not  idle  words,  hnt  lih- 
erty.  When  you  ask  nu!  to  helieve  you,  you 
must  first  Rain  my  eonfideneo  hy  treating 
me  with  common  justice.  Or  if  you  will  not 
release  mc,  let  mo  at  least  '  my  friends. 
That  is  not  nnicli.  I  have  only  one  friend — 
Miss  I'lymjiton." 

"You  appear  to  think  more  of  this  Miss 
Plymi)ton  than  you  do  of  your  own  father," 
said  Wiggins,  )j;l(ioinily. 

"  What  I  think  of  my  father  is  of  no  con- 
Becinence  to  you,"  said  Edith ;  "  hnt  as  to 
Miss  riympton,  she  took  mo  as  a  dying  pift 
f"-om  my  dear  manuna,  and  has  loved  mo  with 
a  mother's  lovo  ever  since,  and  is  the  only 
mother  I  have  known  since  childhood.  When 
you  turned  her  away  from  my  gates  you  did 
an  injury  to  hoth  of  us  which  makes  all  your 
protestations  of  honesty  useless.  Ihit  she  is 
not  under  your  control,  and  you  may  he  sure 
that  8ho  will  exert  herself  on  my  hehalf.  It 
seems  to  mo  th.at  you  have  iu)t  considered 
what  tho  result  will  ho  if  she  comes  hack  iu 
tho  name  of  tho  law." 

"  I  have  considered  every  thing,"  said  Wig- 
gins.    Then,  after  a  pause,  ho  added,  "  So 
you  love  Miss  Plympton  very  dearly  V 
"  Very,  very  dt^arly  !" 
"  And  her  words  would  have  great  weight 
■with  you  ?" 

"  Very  groat  weight." 
"If,  now,  she  should  toll  yon  that  you 
might  put  confidence  in  me,  you  would  feel 
more  inclined  to  do  so  ?" 

Edith  hesitated  at  this ;  hut  tho  thought 
occurred  to  her  of  Miss  Plymiiton's  detesta- 
tion of  Wiggins,  and  tho  utter  impossihility 
of  a  change  of  opinion  on  her  part. 

"If  Miss  Plympton  should  put  confidence 
in  you,"  said  she,  "  I  should  indeed  feel  my 
own  opinions  changed." 

Upon  this  Wiggins  sat  meditating  pro- 
foundly for  a  short  time. 

"  Suppose,  now,"  said  ho  at  length,  "  that 
you  should  receive  a  note  from  Miss  Plymp- 
ton in  which  she  slionld  give  you  a  more 
favorahle  opinion  of  me,  would  you  accept  it 
from  her?" 

"  I  certainly  should  ho  happy  to  get  any 
thing  of  that  kind  from  her."  said  Edith. 

"  Well,"  said  Wiggins,  "  I  had  not  intend- 
ed to  take  any  one  into  my  confiderice,  cer- 
tainly not  any  stranger,  and  that  stranger  a 


woman  ;  hut  I  am  so  nnahle  to  tell  you  all, 
and  at  tho  same  time  I  long  so  to  have  your 
eonfideneo,  that  I  may  possihly  deeidt*  to  see 
Miss  Plympton  myself.  If  I  do,  rest  assured 
her  opinion  of  mo  will  change.  This  will 
endanger  the  success  of  my  jilan  ;  hut  I  must 
run  the  risk— yes,  whatever  it  is ;  for  if  this 
goes  (m,  I  must  even  give  uj)  the  jdan  itself, 
and  with  it  all  my  hopes  for  uPiolf — and  for 
you." 

These  last  words  Wiggins  spoke  in  a  low 
voice,  half  to  himself,  and  Avith  his  eyes 
turned  to  the  ground.  Edith  Inward  tho 
words,  hut  thought  nothing  of  the  meaning 
of  them.  To  her,  every  thing  was  done  for 
efl'ect,  nothing  was  sincere.  If  she  did  not 
understand  the  meaning  of  some  of  his 
words,  she  did  not  tronhle  herself  to  try  to, 
hut  dismissed  them  from  her  thoughts  as 
merely  affectations.  As  to  his  allusion  to 
Miss  Plymiiton,  and  his  idea  of  visiting  her, 
Edith  did  not  for  a  moment  imagine  that  ho 
meant  it.  She  thought  that  this  was  of  a 
piece  with  tho  rest. 

With  these  last  words  Wiggins  aros(t  from 
his  chair,  and  with  a  slight  how  to  Edith, 
took  his  departure.  The  interview  had  hcen 
a  singular  one,  and  tho  manner  of  entreaty 
whicii  Wiggins  had  adoi)ted  toward  her 
served  to  perplex  her  still  more.  It  was 
])art  of  tho  system  which  ho  had  originated, 
hy  which  she  was  never  treated  in  any  other 
way  than  with  tho  utmost  apparent  resjiect 
and  consideration,  hut  in  reality  guarded  as 
a  prisoner  with  the  most  sleepless  vij;     .uce. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  WONDKKFl'L  ACTOR. 

A  FEW  more  days  passed,  and  Edith  re- 
mained in  tho  same  state  as  hefore.  Occa- 
sioiuilly  she  would  walk  up  and  down  tho 
terrace  in  front  of  tho  house,  hut  her  dislike 
to  heing  tracked  and  watched  and  followed 
prevented  her  from  going  any  distance.  She 
saw  that  she  could  not  hope  to  escape  hy  her 
unassisted  eflbrts,  and  that  her  only  hope  lay 
in  assist.ance  from  tho  outside  world.  Miss 
Plympton,  she  felt  sure,  could  never  forget 
her,  and  would  do  all  that  possihly  could  he 
done  to  effect  her  release  as  soon  as  i)08sihle. 
Ihit  day  after  day  passed,  and  still  no  deliv- 
erer appeared. 

She  saw  nothing  of  Wiggins  during  those 
days,  hut  Mrs.  Dunhar  attended  on  her  as 
usual.  To  her,  however,  Edith  now  paid  no 
attention  whatever.  In  her  opinion  she  was 
the  associate  of  her  jailer,  and  a  willing  part- 
ner in  the  wrong  that  was  heing  done  to  her. 
Under  those  circumstances  she  could  not 
show  to  her  any  of  that  gentle  courtesy  and 
kindly  consideration  which  her  nature  im- 
pelled her  to  exhihit  to  all  with  whom  she 
was  hrought  iu  contact.     On  the  contrary, 


THE  LIVINQ  LINK. 


47 


)  tell  jMUi  all, 
to  liiivo  yovir 
decide  to  see 
I,  rest  nsHured 
e.  Tliis  will 
I ;  but  I  must 
is;  for  it  this 
lu!  itliin  itself, 
"jclf — uud  for 

[)oko  iu  a  low 
vhh  liiH  eyes 
th  heard  the 
r  the  unfailing 

was  done  for 
T  she  did  not 

some  of  his 
self  to  try  to, 
:  thoughts  as 
is  allusion  to 
if  visitiiijj;  her, 
lagine  that  ho 
this  was  of  a 

:in8  arose  from 
bow  to  Eilith, 
view  had  been 
er  of  entreaty 
il  toward  her 
more.  It  was 
lad  originated, 
id  in  any  other 
parent  resjject 
ity  guarded  as 
)less  vi{;     .uce. 


:oR. 

and  Edith  re- 
fore.     Occa- 

and  down  the 

jut  her  dislike 
and  fidlowed 

distance.  She 
escape  by  her 
(uily  hope  lay 
world.  Miss 
never  forget 
sibly  could  be 

ion  as  possible, 
still  no  deliv- 


[l 


s  during  those 
ded  on  her  as 
h  now  paid  no 
pinion  she  was 
a  willing  part- 
ig  done  to  her. 
lie  could  not 
courtesy  and 
er  nature  im- 
ith  whom  she 
the  contrary, 


she  never  even  looked  at  her ;  but  often, 
when  she  was  conscious  that  Mrs.  Dunbar 
was  gazing  u|ion  her  with  that  str.inge,  wist- 
ful look  that  characterized  her,  she  refused 
to  respond  in  any  way.  And  so  the  time 
passed  on,  Edith  in  a  state  uf  drear  solitude, 
and  waiting,  and  waiting. 

At  lengtii  she  received  another  visit  from 
Wiggins.  He  came  to  her  nxmi  as  before, 
and  knocked  in  his  usual  style.  He  looked 
at  her  with  his  usual  soh-nui  earnestness,  and 
advanced  toward  her  at  once. 

"You  will  remember,"  said  he,  "that  when 
I  was  last  here,  a  few  days  ago,  I  said  that  I 
might  possibly  decide  to  see  Miss  Plynipton 
myself.  It  was  solely  for  your  sake  ;  and  tf) 
do  so  I  have  made  a  great  sacrifice  of  feeling 
and  of  Judgment." 

"Miss  l'lymi)tonT"  intcrruj)t<'d  Edith, ea- 
gerlv.     "  Have  you  seeu  Miss  Plymptou  V 

"i  have." 

"  Where  ?  At  Daltou  ?  Is  she  at  Dalton 
still  ?" 

"  She  is  not." 

Editli's  countenance,  which  had  flushed 
with  hoi)e,  now  fell  at  this.  It  looked  as 
though  Miss  Plymptou  had  gone  away  too 
hastily. 

"Wliere  did  you  see  her?"  she  asked,  in  a 
low  voice,  trying  to  couce.il  her  agitation. 

"At  Plymptou jTerrace,"  said  Wiggins. 

"  Plymptou  Terrace,"  repeated  Edith,  iu 
a  dull  monotone,  while  her  breast  heaved 
with  irrepressible  euu)tion.  Her  heart  sank 
within  her.  This  indeed  looked  like  a  de- 
sertion of  her  on  the  part  of  her  only  friend. 
Hut  after  a  moment's  despondency  she  ral- 
lied once  more,  as  the  thought  came  to  her 
tliat  this  was  all  a  fiction,  and  that  Wiggins 
Lad  not  seeu  her  ut  all. 

"Yes,"  said  Wiggins,  "I  have  seen  her, 
and  had  a  long  interview,  in  which  I  ex- 
plained many  things  to  her.  It  was  all  for 
your  sake,  for  had  you  not  been  concerned, 
I  should  never  have  thought  of  telling  her 
what  I  did.  But  I  was  anxious  to  get  you 
to  confide  in  me,  and  you  said  that  if  Miss 
Plymiitou  should  put  confidence  iu  mo,  you 
yourself  would  feel  inclined  to  do  so.  It  is 
because  I  want  your  confidence,  your  trust 
— because  I  can't  tell  you  all  yet,  and  be- 
cause without  your  trust  I  am  weak — that  I 
have  doue  this.  Your  misery  breaks  up  all 
my  jdans,  and  I  wish  to  put  an  end  to  it. 
Now  I  have  seen  Miss  Plymptou  at  Plymp- 
tou Terrace,  and  she  has  written  you  a  let- 
ter, which  I  have  brought." 

With  these  words  he  drew  from  hia  pock- 
et a  letter,  and  handed  it  to  Edith.  With 
a  flushed  face  and  a  rapidly  throbbing  heart 
Edith  took  the  letter.  It  seemed  like  that 
for  which  she  had  been  so  long  waiting,  but 
at  the  same  time  there  was  a  certaiu  ill-de- 
fined apprehension  on  her  mind  of  disap- 
pointment. Had  that  letter  come  through 
any  other  channel,  it  would  have  excited 


nothing  but  tmmingled  joy;  but  the  chan- 
nel was  suspicious,  and  Edith  did  not  yet 
believe  that  he  had  really  been  to  Plymptou 
Terrace.  She  suspected  siuuc  new  jiiece  of 
acting,  Hcmie  new  kind  of  deceit  or  attempt 
to  deceive,  and  the  fact  that  she  was  still  a 
prisoner  was  enough  to  fortify  all  her  obsti- 
nate disbelief  iu  the  protestations  uf  this 
num. 

Hut  on  the  letter  she  saw  her  own  imme 
in  the  well-known  and  unmistakable  hand- 
writing of  Miss  Plymptou.  .She  was  ((uite 
familiar  with  that  writing,  so  nnu'h  so  that 
she  could  not  be  deceived.  Tiiis  letter,  then, 
was  from  her  own  hand,  and  as  she  read  it 
she  began  to  think  that  after  all  Wiggins 
was  true  iu  his  statement  that  he  had  seeu 
her.  Then,  seeing  this,  with  deep  agitation, 
and  with  a  thousand  conflicting  emotions, 
she  tore  it  open.     She  read  the  fuUowing: 

"  Pt.VMITON  TeBU.VOE. 

"My  darung  Eihtii, — I  can  iu)t  tell  ytui, 
my  own  sweet  love,  how  I  have  suffered  from 
anxiety  since  I  parted  from  ycni  at  the  gates 
of  Dalton  Hall.  I  went  back,  ami  received 
your  dear  note  that  night,  which  consoled 
me.  On  the  following  day  I  looked  for  you, 
but  you  did  not  come.  Full  of  impatience, 
I  went  to  the  gate,  but  was  not  admitted, 
though  I  tried  every  iiulucemeut  to  uuike 
the  porter  open  to  me.  Turning  away,  I  de- 
termined to  go  at  once  in  search  of  some 
means  by  which  1  could  gain  access  to  you, 
or  free  you  from  your  position.  After  much 
thought  I  went  to  visit  Sir  Lionel  Dndlcigh, 
who  heard  my  story,  and  i)romised  to  act  at 
once  on  your  behalf.  Ho  advised  me  to  re- 
turn to  Plymptou  Terrace,  and  w  ait  here  till 
ho  should  take  the  lU'cessary  steps,  which  I 
accordingly  did.  I  have  been  here  ever 
since,  and  I  can  truly  say,  my  darling,  that 
you  have  not  once  been  out  of  my  thoughts, 
nor  have  I  till  this  day  been  free  from  anx- 
iety about  you.  My  worst  fear  has  been 
about  your  own  endurance  of  this  restraint ; 
for,  knowing  your  impatient  disposition,  I 
have  feared  that  you  might  fret  yourself 
into  illness  if  you  were  not  soon  released 
from  your  un])leasant  situation. 

"Hut,  my  dearest,  this  day  h.is  brought 
me  a  most  wonderful  and  unexpected  dtdiv- 
eranco  from  all  my  fear.  This  morning  a 
caller  canu)  who  refused  to  send  up  his  name. 
On  going  to  the  parlor  I  found  a  veneralde 
man,  who  introduced  himself  as  Mr.  Wiggins. 
I  confess  when  I  saw  him  I  was  surprised,  as 
I  had  imagined  a  very  different  kind  of  mau. 
But  you  know  what'a  bitter  jirejudice  I  have 
always  bau  against  this  man,  and  so  you  may 
imagine  how  I  received  him.  In  a  few  words 
he  explained  his  errand,  and  stated  that  it 
was  exclusively  with  reference  to  you. 

"And  now,  my  own  darling  Edith,  I  come 
to  th.at  about  which  I  scarce  know  how  to 
speak.     Let  me  hasten  to  say  that  both  you 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


and  I  hnvo  totally  niistindtTHtodd  Mr.  VVij;- 
giim.  Oil,  Kdith,  Ikiw  can  I  h\h'hU.  of  him, 
or  wliat  can  I  Hay  t  Ilti  Inm  told  nut  Hiich  a 
wonderful  and  Hncli  a  )iit(^oim  ntory !  It  can 
not  lio  told  to  yon,  for  rcimonM  which  I  rc- 
Hjx'ct,  tlioiinh  I  do  not  ai)i>rov(>  altoj;i'tih!r ' 
of  tlicin.  1  think  it  would  lie  liettrr  to  tell  ' 
yon  all,  for  then  yonr  Hitnation  woidd  lie  far  ' 
dilferent,  and  he  would  not  Htaiid  in  ho  fear-  j 
fully  falne  a  ]ioHition.  lint  hin  reanouH  are 
all-powerful  with  hiiuHelf,  and  ho  I  nhall  Hay 
nothing.  Hut  oh,  my  dearent,  let  me  imjilore 
yon,  let  me  entreat  you,  to  K've  to  thin  man 
your  reverence  and  yonr  trnnt!  Ite  jiatient, 
and  wait.  reriiajiH  In*  may  overcome  hin 
high  and  delicate  tterupleH,  and  let  you  know 
what  hin  purpoHCH  are.  For  my  jiart,  my 
oidy  f^rief  now  in  that  I  have  done  nomething 
towai'd  givin<;  you  that  fear  an<l  hate  and 
distruHt  of  him  which  n<iw  animate  you.  I 
entreaty  u  to  dismisH  all  thene  feelin^H, ami 
hear  with  yonr  jirenent  lot  till  lirighter  dayn 
come.  The  imrpone  of  Mr.  Wi^K'"**  '•'*  n  Idnh 
and  holy  one,  and  this  he  will  work  out  huc- 
coHHfidly,  I  hojie  and  helitn'o.  Do  not,  dear- 
est, by  your  im/atience  jjive  any  additional 
punj;  to  that  nolilo  heart.  IJcare  of  what 
yon  nay  or  do  now,  for  fear  lest  hereafter  it 
nuiy  cauHC  the  deopent  reinorHC.  Spare  him, 
for  he  haw  Hurt'ered  nuich.  The  name  of  your 
fannly,  the  memory  of  your  injure<l  father, 
are  all  at  stake  now  ;  and  I  pray  you,  dear- 
est, to  restrain  yourself,  and  try  to  hear  with 
the  present  state  of  thinjfs.  If  you  can  only 
believe  me  or  be  intluenced  by  me,  you  will 
give  him  all  yonr  trust,  and  even  yonr  aflec- 
tion.  Hut  if  you  can  not  do  this  at  once,  at 
least  spare  him  any  furtlusr  pain.  Alas,  how 
that  nolihs  heart  has  sutt'enul !  When  I  think 
of  liis  monrid'nl  story,  I  almost  lose  all  faith 
in  hunumity,  and  would  lose  it  altojjether 
were  it  not  for  the  spectacle  wJuch  is  afford- 
ed by  himself — a  spectacle  of  jiurest  and  loft- 
iest virtue,  and  Htaiidess  honor,  and  endless 
self-devotion.  But  I  must  say  no  more,  for 
fear  that  I  nniy  say  too  nnich,  so  I  will  stop. 
"  Mannua  unites  with  me  in  kindest  love, 
and  believe  nus  my  dearest  Edith, 
"  Ever  aliection.itely  yours, 

"  Pamela  Pli'mpton. 

"  P.S. — I  have  not  referred  to  that  noblest 
of  women,  Mrs.  Dunbar.  Oh,  dearest  Edith, 
I  hojie  that  ere  this  she  has  won  your  wlude 
heart,  and  that  you  have  already  divined 
something  of  that  exalted  sjiirit  and  that 
meek  self-sacrifice  which  make  her  life  so 
sublime.     I  can  say  no  more.  P.  P." 

Now  it  will  be  evident  to  the  reader  that 
if  Miss  Plympton  had  really  written  the 
above,  and  had  meant  to  incite  Edith  to 
give  her  alfectionate  reverence  to  her  two 
jailers,  she  could  not  have  gone  about  it  in 
a  worse  way.  Edith  read  it  through,  and  at 
the  bi'ginning  thought  that  it  might  be  au- 


thentic, but  when  she  canu»  to  the  latter  luilf, 
that  ideabej'an  todepart.  As  she  read  on  fur- 
ther and  further,  it  appeared  more  and  more 
unlike  .Misn  I'lympton.  The  Hudchui  tranni- 
tion  froui  hate  to  admiration,  the  extrava- 
gant terniH  that  were  made  use  of,  tln^  ex- 
hortatiouH  to  licrHcIf  to  change  her  feelings 
toward  one  lik(^  Wiggins,  the  stilled  phra- 
Hcology,  the  incohereucies,  all  Hi-emed  so  un- 
like the  maimer  of  Mins  I'lympton  as  to  bo 
only  (it  for  derisiou.  Mut  the  postscript 
Hcemed  wiUHt  of  all.  Here  the  writer  had 
overdone  hernelf,  or  himnelf,  and  by  drag- 
ging in  the  hoUHckeepcr,  Mrn,  Dunbar,  and 
holding  her  n]t  for  tlie  name  extravagant 
admiration,  a  climax  of  utter  absurdity  had 
been  attained. 

On  reading  this  singular  letter  Edith's 
thoughts  came<|uick  and  vi'hement  through 
her  mind.  If  thin  letter  were  indeed  the 
work  of  MisH  I'lymiiton,  then  all  hojie  for 
her  interference  was  utterly  gon(\  If  Jliss 
I'lympton  wrot(^  that,  then  she  was  evident- 
ly either  mad,  or  else  Hhe  had  undergone  a 
change  of  mind  so  incomprehensible  that 
it  was  ('(luivaleiit  to  madnesn.  Itiit  Jlisn 
Plympton  coidd  never  have  wiittcn  it.  Of 
that  she  felt  as  sure  as  she  was  of  her  own 
existene«. 

If  she  did  not,  who  did  write  it!  The 
hanilwriting  was  exactly  like  that  other  re- 
vered friend.  There  wan  not  the  slightest 
ditl'erenc<^  bc-tween  this  an*l  that  witii  which 
she  was  so  familiar.  It  was  her  handwrit- 
ing indeed,  but  it  was  not  Misn  I'lymiiton 
who  spokt!  there.  The  hand  was  the  hand 
of  Miss  Plympton,  but  the  voice  was  the 
voice  of  Wiggins. 

He  had  written  all  this,  she  felt  sure. 
Tlies<!  allusions  to  his  sutl'eriugs,  these  hints 
about  a  plan,  these  references  to  her  fatlua', 
these  entreaties  to  her  to  give  him  her  af- 
fe(rtion  and  trust — all  these  were  familiar. 
W'iggins  had  idready  made  use  of  them  all. 
It  was,  then,  the  work  of  Wiggins  beyond  a 
doubt. 

And  how  ?  Could  she  doubt  for  a  mo- 
ment )iow  ?  By  imitating  the  writing  of 
Miss  Plympton.  Perhajis  he  had  se.it  a  mes- 
senger there,  and  obtained  a  letter,  jiart  of 
which  he  had  copied.  The  tirst  half  might 
have  been  copied  verbatim,  while  the  last 
must  certainly  be  his  own  work.  As  to  his 
pow(!r  to  imitate  her  writing,  need  she  hes- 
itate about  that?  W^as  mit  her  father  con- 
demned for  a  forgery  which  another  had 
done  ?  Had  she  not  already  suspected  that 
this  false  friend  was  no  other  than  John 
W'iggins  himself?  Forgery!  that  was  only 
too  easy  for  a  man  like  him.  And  she  now 
saw  in  that  letter  an  etfort  to  accomplish 
her  ruin  by  tin;  sauu!  weapon  with  which 
her  father's  had  Insen  wrought. 

All  these  thoughts  rushed  through  her 
niind  as  she  read  and  as  she  stood  looking 
over  the  pajies  and  thinking  about  what 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


49 


thu  liittur  half, 
lie  n'iul  im  tiir- 
iioi'c  iiiiil  iiioro 
siiililt'u  traimi- 
,  till)  cxtravii- 
iHf,  4)f,  tlm  «'X- 

rtl  \U'V    IVflill^H 

,!  still<<l  I'liia- 
Hi'fiiit'tl  mi  nu- 
ii)it()ii  as  to  111) 

liiti    JlOHtSClillt 

tlic,  writer  liad 
,  and  1>y  draj;- 
■s.  Diiiiliar,  and 
10  extravagant 
r  absiirdity  had 

■  letter  Edith's 
lenient  throiiKh 
■ero  indeed  tho 
en  all  hoiie  for 

f;one.  If  Miss 
he  was  evident- 
ad  iinderf^one  a 
nehensildt)  that 
lu'ss.     lint  Miss 

written  it.  Of 
was  of  her  own 

write  it!     Tho 

io  thatof  her  re- 

lot  the  slightest 

that  with  which 

s  her  handwrit- 

Miss  riyiiil)ton 

1  was  tlui  hand 

voice  was  tho 


11 


sho  felt  sure. 
w'^a,  these  hints 

s  to  her  father, 
ive  hiin  her  af- 
.  were  familiar, 
use  of  them  all. 

ggins  heyond  a 


>  I 


donht  for  a  nio- 

the  writing  <>f 

1  had  seat  a  mcs- 

a  letter,  part  of 

iirst  half  might 

u,  while  the  last 

work.     As  to  his 

iig,  need  slie  hes- 

(t  her  father  con- 

lich  another  had 

ily  suspected  that 

other  than  Johu 

■y!  that  was  only 

in.  And  she  now 
lit  to  accomplish 
upon  with  which 
ight. 
ihed  through  her 
^he  stood  h)oking 
ing  about  what 


^■mmry 


'STKADVINU   HIMSELF,   UH   8TUUI)   TIIKKK   TKKMIII.IN'U. 


had  hpon  done.  All  tho  hate  that  she  liad 
ever  felt  for  her  father's  betrayer,  which  had 
iiicrea.sed  when  he  had  become  lier  own  ojt- 
pressor,  now  glowed  hot  within  her  heart, 
and  could  not  be  repressed. 

Meanwhile  Wiggins  had  stood  before  her 
on  the  same  spot  where  he  had  stojiped  when 
he  haiMlcd  her  the  letter,  lie  had  stood 
there  with  his  eyes  lixed  upon  her,  and  on 
his  face  an  expression  of  solemn  suspense — a 
suspense  so  anxious  that  one  might  have  suj)- 
]iosed  his  Avhole  life  depended  upon  Editii's 
decision.  So  he  stood,  rigid,  mute,  with  all 
his  soul  centring  itself  in  that  gaze  which 
lie  fixed  on  lier,  iu  an  attitude  which  seemed 
almost  tliat  of  a  suppliant,  for  liis  rev(;rend 
head  was  liowed,  and  his  aged  form  bent,  and 
his  thin  hands  folded  over  one  another  be- 
fore him. 

Such  were  the  face  and  figure  and  look  and 
attitude  that  Edith  saw  as  she  raised  her 
head.  Had  her  anger  been  less  fervid  and 
her  indignation  less  intense,  she  would  sure- 
ly have  Iteeu  ati'ected  by-  that  venerable  sup- 
l)liant  form;  but  as  it  was,  there  was  no  place 
for  .any  softer  emotion. 
D 


She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  as  her  white 
face  showed  i<self  opposite  to  his,  her  eyes 
looked  upon  him,  as  once  before,  hard,  steni, 
pitiless;  Imt  this  time  their  glaiuu;  was  even 
more  cruel  and  imi>Iacable.  She  held  out 
the  letter  to  him,  aud  said,  (juietly, 

"  Take  it." 

Wiggins  looked  at  her,  and  spoke  in  a 
voice  that  was  scarcely  auditdc. 

"  What — do — you — mean  ?"' 

Carried  beyond  herself  now  by  this  at- 
temi>t  to  j)roloiig  what  seemed  so  stupid  and 
1  transparent  a  deceit,  Edith  spoke  lier  whole 
mind  ]ilainly : 

"  This  is  a  close  imitation  of  Miss  Plymp- 
ton's  liandwriting,  but  she  could  never  writ.) 
such  words — never!  You  have  iu)t  visited 
her;  you  have  not  seen  her.  Tliis  is  a  for- 
gery. Once  you  were  successful  in  forging, 
but  now  you  can  not  be.  Hy  that  criint!  you 
once  destroyed  the  father,  but  if  you  destroy 
the  daughter,  you  must — " 

Hut  what  Edith  was  going  to  say  remain- 
ed unsaid,  for  at  this  point  sho  was  inter- 
mitted. 

Wiggins  had  listened  to  her  with  a  stunned 


&0 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


<^xpre8Hi(>n,  as  tboiiKli  not  alilo  to  conipn'hi'titl 
hiT.  But  as  the  fiillness  of  tho  iiieuiiiiiK  of 
her  wctnls  r<ach(Ml  hiHoars  he  Hhtiihlcrt'd  from 
head  t<»  foot.  A  U)\v  moan  cHca]i*Ml  liiin.  He 
Htarted  back,  and  r('ji;ar<led  Edith  with  eyes 
that  Htarcd  in  utter  horror. 

"Stoiil  stop!"  ho  cried,  in  a  h)\v,  harsh 
voice.  "No  more,  no  more!  This  is  ma^l- 
ncss.  (jirl,  yon  will  some  day  weep  tears 
of  Idood  for  tliis!  Y'on  will  on*'  day  rei>ent 
of  this,  and  (n'ery  word  that  y<Mi  have  spok- 
en will  j)ierce  your  own  heart  as  they  now 
pierce  mine.  Yon  are  mad:  you  do  not  know 
what  yoii  are  sayinjj.  ()  Heavens!  how  mad 
you  are  in  your  ifjnoranci^ !  And  I  need  only 
utter  oui'  word  to  reduce  you  to  desiwir.  If 
1  w«'ro  dying  now  I  could  say  that  whicli 
would  give  you  life-long  remorse,  and  make 
you  carry  a  lirokeu  heart  to  your  grave!" 

He  stop])ed  abruptly,  and  staggered  back, 
but  caught  at  a  <'liair,  and,  steadying  him- 
self, stood  there  tivnibling,  with  his  head 
iiowed,  and  heavy  sighs  escajting  him.  Soon 
hasty  footsteps  were  heard,  and  Mrs.  Dunbar 
hnrrie<l  into  the  ro(un,  with  a  frighlened  face, 
looking  lirst  at  Edith  and  then  at  Wiggins. 
■She  said  not  a  word,  however,  but  apjiroach- 
ing  Wiggins,  drew  his  arm  iu  hers,  and  led 
him  out  of  the  room. 

Edith  stood  for  some  time  looking  after 
them. 

"WImt  a  wonderful  actor  ho  is!"  she 
thought;  "and  Mrs.  Dunbar  was  waiting 
beliiud  the  scenes  to  appear  when  her  turn 
should  coiue.  They  went  out  just  like  peo- 
ple ou  the  stage." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TWO  (•am.i:k8.  , 

TiMK  passed  slowly  with  the  prisoner,  but 
the  freetloni  for  which  sbi:  bulged  seemed  as 
distant  as  over.  Miss  I'lympton's  ai>pareut 
desertion  of  her  was  the  worst  blow  that  she 
bad  yet  received,  and  even  if  tli<'  letter  that 
Wiggins  had  shown  her  was  a  forgery,  it 
still  reinniucd  evident  tliat  but  little  was  to 
lie  hoiied  for  now  in  that  (luarter.  it  seem- 
ed to  her  now  as  if  she  was  cut  off  from  all 
the  world.  Her  relatives  were  inditferent ; 
Sir  lii(uiel  Dudleigh  was  inaccessilile ;  Miss 
IMyiuptou  aiijieared  to  have  given  her  up; 
the  county  f'cinilies  who,  under  ordinary 
I'ircunistances,  might  have  tried  to  call  on 
her,  would  ])robal(ly  view  with  inditl'erence, 
if  not  prejudice,  t\w  daughter  of  a.  ccuivict. 
All  these  circumstances,  therefore,  reduced 
her  to  deep  dejection,  and  made  her  feel  as 
though  she  was  indeed  at  the  mercy  of  her 
jailer. 

While  thus  couscions  of  her  lieljdessness, 
however,  she  did  not  fear  any  thing  wiu'se 
tiiau  im])ris(uiiuent.  Tiie  idea  had  occurred 
to  her  of  further  injury,  but  had  been  at  tuice 


dismissed.  She  did  not  tliiuk  it  possible 
that  her  life  could  be  in  daugei'.  It  secuued 
to  her  that  Wiggins  owed  all  his  jiower  to 
the  very  fiwt  of  her  life.  Ho  was  her  guard- 
ian, us  ho  had  said,  and  if  she  were  to  dit;,  be 
woiiki  b(i  no  more  than  any  one  else.  The 
m'arest  heirs  would  then  come  forward,  ami 
ho  W4)uld  have  to  retire.  'J'hose  nearest  heirs 
would  undoubtedly  be  tho.so  relatives  of 
whom  Miss  Plympton  had  told  her.  or  per- 
liaps  Sir  Lionel  Dudleigh,  of  whom  sla^  now 
thought  freiiueutly,  and  who  began  to  be 
her  last  hoite. 

The  fact  that  Wiggins  was  her  guardian 
till  her  marriage  showed  her  plainly  that 
lie  would  endeavor  to  iiostjione  any  sin;h  a 
thing  as  marriage  for  an  indeliiiit(<  jieriod. 
In  order  to  do  this  he  would,  no  doubt,  keep 
hor  pocluded  as  long  as  lu^  conld.  Hi^  wiuild 
feel  it  to  bo  for  his  interest  that  her  health 
should  be  taken  care  of,  for  any  sickness 
of  hers  would  necessarily  alarm  him.  The 
thought  of  this  made  her  wish  for  illness,  so 
that  she  might  have  a  doctor,  and  thus  tinil 
some  one  who  was  not  iu  his  employ.  Ibit 
then,  on  th.^  otluu'  hand,  sin;  feared  that  the 
doctor  whom  ho  might  send  would  be  some 
one  in  his  j)ay,  or  in  his  c(ni(idence,  like  all 
the  rest,  aud  so  her  desire  for  illness  faded 
out. 

At  last  a  day  camo  when  tho  monotony 
of  her  life  was  iiit«>rrnpted.  She  was  look- 
ing out  of  her  window  when  she  was  startled 
by  thi^  sound  of  a  carriage  coming  up  ilio 
main  avenue.  Tln^  s(iund  iilled  lu'r  with 
excitement.  It  could  not  l)o  Wiggins.  It- 
nnist  be  some  one  for  her,  some  frieinl  — 
Jli.ss  Plympton  herself.  Her  heart  beat  fast. 
at  tho  thought.  Yes,  it  unist  lie  Jliss  Plymp- 
ton. Site  had  not  given  her  up.  She  had 
been  laboring  for  her  deliverance,  and  now 
she  was  coming,  armed  witti  ific  authority 
of  tho  law,  to  eliect  her  release.  Edith's 
lirst  impulse  was  to  hurry  down  and  nu'ot 
the  carriage,  but  long  and  fre(|uent  disap- 
pointment had  tanght  her  the  need  of  re- 
str.'iint,  ;ind  so  she  remained  at  tho  window 
till  tlie  carriagt^  canu;  into  view. 

Well  was  it  for  her  that  she  had  tried  to 
repress  her  hopes,  and  had  forborne  to  rush 
down  at  her  lirst  impulse.  ()ne  glance  show- 
ed li(<r  that  the  new-comers  were  strangers. 
It  was  a  haiulsonm  barouche  that  she  saw, 
and  in  it  weri!  a  lady  and  a  gentleman, 
neither  of  whom  she  had  seen  before.  But 
even  in  the  midst  of  her  disappointment 
hop(^  still  found  a  ])lace,  and  the  thought 
occur'  ed  to  her  that  though  theses  might  not 
be  fan.ll'ar  to  her,  they  yet  might  !»'  friends, 
and  might  even  have  been  sent  by  Miss 
Plympton.  Hut,  if  so,  how  came  they  lu^re  ? 
Did  they  have  any  tnuible  at  tlm  gate'? 
How  was  it  that  Wiggins  relaxed  his  regula- 
tions in  their  favor?  {'(uild  they  ht'  friends 
of  his  own,  after  all  ?     Yes,  it  nnist  bt<  so. 

Filled  with    thoughts  like  these,  which 


THE  LIVING  LIKK. 


51 


H'iut  Ix'at  fast. 

Miss  riynip- 

iip.     Slit!  liiul 

liiicc,  and  iittw 


iwn  and  iiu'i't 


lit  the  window 

lirtd  tiiod  to 
Jhorno  to  rush 
irlancf  sliow- 
ri'  stiaiiflt'i's. 
Itliat  sill'  saw, 


tiif  tlionn'*^ 
I'sc  iniiilit  not 
tilt  1«'  t'licnds, 


llius  altciiialt'.l  iM'twt'cn  liope  and  fear,  1  those  two  which  oxritcd  a  fetling  akin  to 
Kdith  watcliid  thti  ncw-coincrs,  as  the  car-  aversion  in  her  mind;  and  this  \\nn  more 
riaj;c  rolled  up  to  the  Hall,  with  somethinjjj  jiarticularly  the  case  witli  regard  to  Captain 
(if  the  same  emotions  that  fill  the  shipwreck- ;  Mowliray.  As  lie  looked  at  her  tliero  was 
ed  sailor  as  he  watches  the  itidgressof  a  life- I  a  cold,  liard  lij;ht  in  his  eyes  whicli  gave 
boat  that  comes  to  save  Iiini.  Even  now  it  .  her  the  idea  of  a  cruel  and  ]iitilesM  nature; 
was  with  dillicnlty  that  she  jireveiited  hei- |  and  there  was  a  kind  of  cynicism  in  liis 
self  from  rushing  down  and  met'ting  them,  •  tone  when  he  spoke,  which  repelled  her  at 
and  imiiloring  their  help  at  once.  15ut  she  once.  He  had  all  the  air  of  a  ron<^,  yet  even 
restrained  her  imiiatieiice  with  a  great  cf-  roues  have  often  a  savor  of  Jolly  reeklcss- 
fort,  and  suniuiiug  up  all  her  sell'-coiitrol,  ness  ahont  them  which  conciliates.  Alioiit 
she  waited.  i  this  man,  however,  there  was  nothing  of 

She  heardthegreathell  resoundingthrougli  this;  there  was  nothing  hut  cold,  cynical 
thi'loiighalls;  she  heard  the  f()otste])sof  Mrs.  self-regard,  and  Edith  saw  in  him  one  who 
Dunliar  as  she  went  down.  Then  tlieri!  was  might  tu^  as  hateful  as  even  Wiggiiia,  and 
a  long  delay,  al'ter  which  Mrs.  Diinhai;  re-    far  more  to  he  dreaded. 

luriied  and  entered  the  room.  She  aiipeared  ,  "I'm  afraid,"'  said  Mrs.  ilowhray,  "  that 
trouldcd,  and  there  was  on  her  faci!  a  larger  we  are  intruders  on  your  seclusion  ;  hut  we 
.share  than  nsiial  of  that  anxious,  fearful  ,  waited  .some  time,  and  at  last  concluded  to 
watclifiilness  which  made  its  wonted  expres-  '  hrcak  in  njioii  yon  in  spite  of  your  rigid  re- 
sioii.  Tliere  was  also  something  niore^  ]  strictions.  IJiit  others  have  anticipated  us, 
j-omethiiig  tiiat  seemed  like  utter  consteriia-  I  presume,  and  so  perhaps  you  will  pardon 
tiou  and  hewildenncnt ;    she  was  as  whit(!  ,  us." 

.-.s  ashes;  her  hands  clutched  one  another  I  "  My  seclusion  is  not  my  own  choice."  said 
convulsively;  her  eyes  were  lixed  in  an  ah-  Edith,  niouriifully.  "  You  arc  the  lirst  whom 
rtractcd  gaze  on  vacancy  ;    and  wln^n  she  !  I  have  seen." 

t-))oke  it  was  in  a  low  voice  like  a  whisper,  |  "Then,  my  dear  Miss  Daltoii,  sinet!  we  ar^^ 
;;iid  in  scarcely  articulate  words.  ;  not  unwelcome,  I  feel  very  glad  that  we  Iiave 

"Someone — to  see  you."  1  ventured.     May  I  hope  that  we  will  se((  a. 

That  was  all  that  Mrs.  Dunhar  said.  '  great  deal  of  one  another?" 

"To  see  nu^I"  repeated  Edith,  starting  Mrs.  Mowbray's  manner  of  speaking  was 
from  her  chair,  and  too  cxcitrd  to  notice  essi'utially  in  keeping  with  her  aiipearancc. 
Mrs.  Dnnhar's  manner.  Hope  arose  once  It  may  he  called  a  fashion-plate  style.  It. 
more,  eager  and  unrestrained,  and  without  Was  holli  llneit  and  insincere.  Slies[)okeiii 
f.topitiug  a  moment  to  ask  anything  ahont  what  is  .sonictiuies  called  a  "made  voice;"- — 
llieni,  or  to  make  any  preparations  to  see  that  is  to  say,  a  voit.'c  nut  lier  own,  made  up 
lliem,  slu;  hurried  down,  fearing  lest  tl  ■  lor  company — a  llorid  falsetto  :  a  tone  that 
smallest  tlelay  might  he  dangerous.  Edith  detested. 

On  entering  the  room  the  visitors  iutro-  ;      Could  she  throw  herself  upon  the  sympa- 


dnced  themselves  as  Captain  and  Mrs.  Mow 
hray ;    hut  as  tin;  cajitain  was  young,  and 
.Mrs.  Mowhray  ajipareutly  about   fifty,  they 
apiieared  to  Edith  to  he  mother  and  sou. 

Mrs.  Mowbray's  features  showed  that  in 
lier  youth  she    might  ha'--  been  heantifnl; 


tides  of  these?  Who  were  flieyf  Alight 
tlu'y  notbe  in  league  with  Wiggins  for  soul(^ 
purpose  nnknov.n  to  her?  It  was  curious 
that  these  strangers  Avere  able  to  jiass  the 
gates  which  were  shut  to  all  the  rest  of 
the  wmhl.     'J'hese  wnv  her  thoughts,  and 


yet  then^  was  an  exjiressiou  on  them  wliiith  she  determiiied  to  find  out  from  these  Mow- 
was  not  attractive  to  Edith,  being  a  com-  brays,  if  possible,  how  it  was  that  they  got. 
Iiound  of  |irininess  iiiid  inanity,  which  mad<'    in. 

iter  look  like  a  superannuated  fashion  plate.  \      "Had  you  any  difficulty  at  the  gates  with 
She  was  elaborately  dressed  :  a  rich  robe  of    the  iKUter?"  asked  l-^dith. 
very  thick  silk,  a  frisette  witli  showy  ciuls,        '■  t)li  no,"  said  Captain  Mowbray,  " not  tho 
a  Ixiuuet  with  many  oiiiameuts  of  ribbons    least."' 

and  flowers,  and  a  heavy  Cashmere  shawl  —  i      "  Diil  he  ofl'er  no  resistance  ?" 
sucli  was  her  cosfuiue.     Her  eycH  were  un- |      "Cerlainlv  not.     Why  should  he?'' 


ilcnialily  fine,  and  a  white  veil  covered  her 
face,  which  to  l^dith  looked  as  though  it 
was  painti  d  or  ]iowdercd. 


"  Hecaiise  he  has  been  ill  the  haltil  of  turn- 
ing back  all  visitors." 

"  .Ml,''  said  Mowbray,  listlessly,  "that  is  a 


The  gentleman  at  first  siglit  seemed  like  '  thing  you  ought  not  to  allow." 
a  icm.aikably  li.indsome  man.     He  was  tall  i      "  1  was  afraid,"  said  Editli,  "that  ho  had 
and  well  t"oniied  ;  chest  nut  hair  ciuled  short    trieil  to  keep  yon  back." 
liver  his  wide  brow;  sriu.'ire  cliin,  whiskers,      "Me?"  said   Mowbray,  with  strong  em- 
«:f  the  intensely  fashionable  sort,  and  heavy    ])liasis.       "He   knows   better   than   thai,   I 
mustache.    His  eyes  were  gray,  and  his  feat-    fancy." 
ures  were  regular  and  finely  chiseled.  I      "And  yet  he  is  capahle  of  any  amount  of 

In   spit(<  of  Edilli's   longing  for    friends,    insolence, 
there  was  something  in  the  api>curauco  of  1      "Indeed?''     said     Mowhray,     languidly. 


52 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


W 


"  Then  why  don't  you  turn  bim  off,  and  get 
a  civil  man  T" 

"  Because — l)ecau8e,"  said  Edith,  in  a  trom- 
uloua  voice,  "there  is  one  here  who — who 
counterinandH  all  my  orders." 

"  Ah  f '  said  Mowbray,  in  a  listless  tone, 
which  seemed  to  say  that  he  took  no  inter- 
est whatever  in  these  matters. 

"  Dear  me  !"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  in  a  quer- 
ulous voice.  "Servants  are  such  dreadful 
plaguoH.  Worry?  why,  it's  nothing  tilse 
but  worry!  And  they're  so  shockingly  im- 
pertinent. They  really  have  no  sense  of  re- 
spect. I  don't  know  for  my  part  what  the 
world's  coming  to.  I  suppose  it's  all  these 
dreadful  radicals  and  newsjjapers  and  work- 
ing-men's clubs  and  things.  When  I  was 
young  it  was  not  so." 

"You  have  not  been  in  Dalton  Hall  since 
you  were  a  young  girl.  Miss  Dalton  f"  said 
Mowbray,  in(iuiriugly. 

"  No ;  not  for  ten  years." 

"Do  ycm  tind  it  nnich  changed?" 

''  Very  nundi — and  for  the  worse.  I  have 
had  great  diHiculties  to  contend  with." 

"Indeed?"  said  Mowbray,  inditferently. 
"  Well,  at  any  rate,  you  have  a  n<)l)le  old 
place,  with  every  thing  around  you  to  make 
you  enjoy  life." 

"  Yes — all  but  one  thing." 

"Ah?" 

"  I  am  a  prisoner  here,  Captfiin  Mowbray," 
said  Judith,  with  an  appealing  glance  and  a 
mournful  tone. 

"Ah,  really?"  said  Mowbray;  and  taking 
up  a  book  he  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves 
in  a  careless  way. 

" A  ]»ris(tnerf"  ])ut  in  Mrs.Mowbray.  "Yes, 
and  so  you  are.  It's  like  imprisonment,  tliis 
dreadful  mourning  Hut  one  has  to  act  in 
accordance  with  pxiblic  sentiment.  And  I 
sujjposo  you  grieve  very  r.uch,  my  dear,  for 
your  poor  dear  pai)a.  Poor  man!  I  renu-m- 
ber  seeing  him  once  in  London.  It  was  my 
first  season.  Tliere  were  Lcu'd  Rutland  and 
the  Manjuis  of  Abcrcorn  and  t  he  young  Duke 
of  Sev»!ru — all  the  rage.  Do  you  know,  my 
dear,  I  was  (juite  a  belle  then." 

From  this  beginning  Mrs.  Mowbray  went 
on  to  chatter  ab')ut  the  gayeties  of  her 
youth — and  Lord  A,  how  haiulsouu;  he  was ; 
and  Sir  John  1?,  ho\i  rich  he  was;  and  Col- 
onel V,  how  extravagant  he  was.  Then  she 
wandered  oft'  to  the  subject  of  state  balls,  de- 
scribed the  dress  she  wore  at  her  tirst  jires- 
entation  at  court,  and  the  appearance  of  his 
Gracious  Majesty  King  George,  and  how  he 
wiis  dressed,  and  who  were  with  him,  and 
wliat  he  said — while  all  the  time  poor  Edith, 
wlio  was  bulging  for  an  opportunity  to  tcdl 
them  about  herself,  sat  (juivering  with  im- 
patience and  agitation. 

During  all  this  time  Captain  Mowbray 
looked  liored,  and  sat  examining  th(>  furni- 
ture and  Edith  alternately.  lie  made  no 
effort  to  take  part  in  the  conversation,  but 


seemed  anxious  to  bring  the  visit  to  a  close. 
This  Edith  saw  with  a  sinking  heart.  These, 
then,  were  the  ones  from  whom  she  had 
hoped  assistance.  But  unjiromising  as  these 
were,  they  formed  just  now  her  only  ho]>e, 
and  so,  as  they  at  length  rose  to  go,  Edith 
grew  desperate,  and  burst  forth  in  a  low  but 
quick  ami  excited  tone. 

"  Wait  one  nuinuuit,"  said  she,  "  and  ex- 
cuse me  if  I  give  you  trouble;  but  the  posi- 
tion I  am  in  forciis  me  to  a])peal  to  you  for 
help,  though  you  are  only  strangers.  I  am 
actually  imprisoned  in  this  i)lace.  A  num 
here — Wiggins,  the  late  steward — contines 
nu!  within  these  grounds,  aiul  will  not  let  me 
go  out,  nor  will  he  allow  any  of  my  IViends 
to  come  and  see  iiw.  Ih;  keeps  nw  a  ])rison- 
er  under  strict  wat(di.  Wherever  I  go  about 
the  grounds  I  am  followed.  He  will  not  even 
allow  my  friends  to  write  to  me.  I  am  the 
owner,  but  he  is  the  master.  Captain  Mow- 
bray, I  ap])eal  to  you.  You  are  an  ofticer 
and  a  gentleman.  .S.ive  me  from  this  cruel 
imprisonment!  I  want  nothing  but  liber- 
ty. I  want  to  join  my  friends,  and  gain  my 
rights.  I  entreat  you  to  help  me,  or  if  you 
can  iu)t  help  me  yourself,  let  others  know,  or 
send  me  a  lawyer,  or  take  a  letter  for  me  to 
some  friends." 

And  with  these  words  poor  Edith  sank 
back  into  the  chair  from  wliich  slie  had 
risen,  and  sobbed  aloiul.  Slie  had  spoken  in 
feverish,  eager  tones,  and  her  whole  frame 
quivered  with  agitation. 

Mrs.  Mowbray  list(?ntMl  to  her  with  a  com- 
placent smile,  and  when  Edith  sank  back  in 
her  chair  she  sat  down  too,  and  taking  out 
her  handkerchief  and  a  bottle  of  salts,  began 
to  apjily  the  one  to  her  eyes  and  tlu-  other  to 
her  nose  alternately.  As  for  Cai»tain  Mow- 
bray, he  coolly  resumed  his  seat,  yawned, 
and  then  sat  (juietly  locdiing  first  at  Edith 
and  then  at  M>-s.  Mowbray.  At  length  Edith 
by  a  violent  effort  regaineil  her  .self-control, 
and  looking  at  the  captain,  she  said,  indig- 
nantly, 

"You  say  nothing.  Sir.  Am  I  to  think 
that  you  refu.so  this  reijnest  ?" 

"  By  no  nu'ans,"  said  Cajttain  Mowbray, 
dryly.  "  Silence  is  said  usually  to  signify 
con.sent." 

"  You  will  help  me,  then,  after  all?"  cried 
Edith,  earnestly. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  said  Captain  Mowbray, 
a  little  abruptly.  "Who  is  this  man,  Miss 
Dalton,  of  whom  you  complain  ?" 

"Wiggins." 

"Wiggins?''  said  Mowbray.  "Ah!  was 
ho  not  the  steward  of  your  late  father  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  have  heard  somewhere  that  lie  was  ap- 
pointed your  guardi.in.     Is  that  so  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Edith.  "  He  claims 
to  be  my  guarilian ;  but  1  am  of  age,  and  I 
don't  see  how  he  can  be." 

"The  law  of  guardianship  is  very  pecul- 


.L 


lit  to  a  close, 
eart.  These, 
oiu  she  luul 
winj;  as  these 
r  only  hope, 
to  jjo,  Edith 
ill  a  low  but 

he,  "  and  ex- 
hut  the  posi- 
al  to  you  for 
I) gets.  I  am 
ace.  A  man 
ird — (Mintiiies 
ill  not  let  me 
)f  my  friends 

me  a  juison- 
er  I  f;o  ahout 

will  not  even 
le.  I  am  tlie 
.'aptaiii  Mow- 
irti  an  olHeer 
iim  this  cruel 
Mjf  hut  liher- 

and  <;ain  my 

me,  or  if  you 
hers  know,  or 
tter  for  me  to 

r  Edith  sank 

lich   she   had 

)ad  spoken  in 

whole  frame 

r  w  ith  a  corn- 
sank  l)aek  in 
id  takinfi;  out 
salts,  l)e<;au 
the  other  to 
t]»tain  Mow- 
at,  yawned, 
r.st  at  Edith 
enjith  Editli 
•self-eontrol, 
said,  indig- 


II  I  to  thinli 

in  Jlowhray, 
ly  to  signify 

er  all  f '  cried 

liu  Mowhray, 
lis  man,  Miss 

?" 

"Ah!  was 
father?" 

at  he  was  np- 

,t  so  ?" 

"  He  claims 
i)f  age,  and  I 

s  very  pecul- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


53 


iar,"  said  Mowbray.  "  Perhaps  he  has  right 
on  his  side." 

"Right!"  cried  Edith,  warmly.  "How 
can  he  have  the  right  to  restrict  my  liberty, 
and  make  me  a  prisoner  on  my  own  estate  ? 
I  am  of  age.  The  estate  is  absolutely  mine. 
He  is  oidy  a  servant.  Have  I  no  rights 
whatever  ?" 

"  I  should  say  you  had,"  said  Mowbray, 
languidly  stroking  his  mustache.  "  I  should 
say  you  had,  of  course.  Hut  this  guardian 
business  is  a  troublesome  thing,  and  Wig- 
gins, as  your  guardian,  may  have  a  certain 
amount  of  power." 

Edith  turned  away  impatiently. 

"I  hoped,"  said  she,  "that  the  mere  men- 
tion of  my  situation  would  be  enough  to  ex- 
cite your  sympathy.  I  see  that  I  was  mis- 
taken, and  am  sorry  that  I  have  troubled 
you." 

"  YoTi  arc  too  hasty,"  said  Mowbray.  "  You 
see,  I  look  at  your  position  merely  from  a 
legal  point  of  view." 

"  A  legal  point !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray, who  had  now  dried  her  eyes  and  re- 
stored the  handkerchief  and  the  salts  bottle 
to  their  proper  places.  "A  legal  point! 
Ah,  Miss  Dalton,  my  son  is  great  on  legal 
points.  He  is  quite  a  lawyer.  If  ho  had 
embraced  the  law  as  a  profession,  which  I 
once  thought  of  getting  him  to  do,  though 
that  was  when  he  was  ([uite  a  child,  and 
something  or  other  put  it  quite  out  of  my 
head — if  he  had  embraced  the  law  as  a  pro- 
fession, my  dear,  he  might  have  aspired  to 
the  bench." 

Edith  rested  her  brow  on  her  hand  and 
bit  her  lips,  reproaching  herself  for  having 
coiilided  her  troubles  to  these  people.  Wig- 
gins himself  was  more  endurable. 

"  Yotir  case,"  said  Captain  Mowbray,  tap- 
ping his  boot  with  his  cane  in  a  careless 
manner,  "  is  one  which  re(|uires  a  very  great 
amount  of  careful  consideration." 

Edith  said  nothing.  She  had  become 
hopeless. 

"If  there  is  r^  will,  and  Wiggins  has 
jiowers  given  him  in  that  instrument,  he 
can  give  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble  with- 
out your  being  able  to  prevent  it." 

This  scene  was  liecoming  intolerable,  and 
Eiiitli  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

"I  want  to  nuike  one  final  request,"  said 
she,  with  dillieulty  controlling  the  scorn  and 
indignation  which  she  felt.  "It  is  this — 
will  you  give  me  a  seat  in  your  carriage  as 
far  as  tlie  village  inn?" 

"The  village  inn?"  repeated  Mowbray, 
and  then  he  wiis  silent  for  some  time.  His 
mother  looked  at  him  in<[uiriugly  and  curi- 
ously. 

"i  have  friends,"  said  Edith,  "and  I  will 
go  to  them.  All  that  I  ask  of  you  is  the 
ilrive  of  a  few  rods  to  the  village  inn.  You 
can  leave  me  there,  and  1  will  never  trouble 
you  again." 


"Well,  really.  Miss  Dalton,"  said  Mow- 
bray, after  an(»tlier  jiause,  in  which  Edith 
sutt'ered  frightful  suspense — "really,  youi- 
retpiest  is  a  singular  one.  I  would  do  any 
thing  for  you — hut  this  is  different.  You 
see,  you  aro  a  sort  of  ward,  and  to  carry 
you  away  from  the  control  of  your  guardian 
might  bo  a  very  dangerous  offense." 

"  In  fact,  you  are  afraid,  I  see,"  said  Edith, 
bitterly.  "Well,  you  need  say  uo  more.  I 
will  trouble  you  no  further." 

Saying  this,  she  rose  and  stood  in  all  hor 
stately  beauty  before  them — cold,  haughty, 
and  without  a  trace  of  emotion  left.  They 
were  struck  by  the  change.  Thus  far  she 
had  appeared  a  timid,  agitated,  frightened 
girl ;  they  now  saw  in  lier  something  of  that 
indomitable  spirit  which  had  already  baf- 
fled iiiul  perplexed  her  jailers. 

"We  hope  to  see  more  of  yon,"  said  Mrs. 
Mowbray.     "  We  shall  call  again  soon." 

To  this  Edith  made  no  reply,  but  saw 
them  to  the  drawing-room  door.  Then  they 
descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  car- 
riage, and  she  heard  them  drive  otf.  Then 
she  went  up  to  her  room,  and  sat  looking 
out  of  the  window. 

"  He  is  worse  than  Wiggins,"  she  mut- 
tered. "  He  is  a  gentleman,  but  a  villain — 
and  a  mined  one  too — perhaps  in  the  pay  of 
Wiggins.     Wiggins  sent  him  her'-  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   PANIC   AMONG  THE  JAILER.S. 

The  arrival  of  these  visitors  had  produced 
an  extraordinary  eft'ect  upon  Mrs.  Dunbar. 
So  great  was  her  agitation  that  slit;  could 
scarcely  announce  theiM  to  Edith.  So  great 
was  it  that,  though  she  \'as  Edith's  jailer, 
she  did  not  dream  of  denying  them  the  priv- 
ilege of  seeing  her,  but  snunm)ned  Edith  at 
once,  as  though  she  was  free  mistress  of  the 
house. 

After  Edith  had  gone  down  the  agitation 
of  Mrs.  Dunbar  continued,  and  grew  even 
greater.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  and  buried 
ner  fac(*  in  her  hands.  In  that  position  she 
remained  motionless  for  a  long  time,  and 
was  at  length  aroused  by  the  return  of  Edith 
iVom  her  intca'view  with  her  visitors.  Upon 
her  entrance  Mrs.  Dunbar  started  np  sud- 
denly, and  with  downcast  face  left  the  room, 
without  exciting  any  attcnition  from  Edith, 
who  was  too  nnich  taken  up  with  her  own 
thoughts  about  her  visitors  to  notice  any 
thing  unusual  about  the  appearance  of  her 
housekeeper. 

Leaving  Edith's  room,  Mrs.  Dunbar  walk- 
ed along  the  hall  with  a  slow  and  uncertain 
step,  and  at  length  reached  a  rooiu  at  the 
west  end.  The  door  was  closed.  She  ku(  ek- 
ed. A  voice  cried,  "  Come  in,"  and  she  ^.m- 
tered. 


54 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


It  vras  a  largo  room,  and  it  looked  out 
upon  till)  grouiidH  in  iroiit  of  the  liouHO.  A 
(liisk  WHS  ill  tlio  middle,  wliich  was  coverod 
witii  ])ai>(;rH.  All  around  wtsro  .shelves  tilled 
with  l>ookH.  It  seemed  to  be  a  mixture  of 
library  and  ofliico.  At  the  denk  satWif^gins, 
who  looked  iij),  aH  Mrs.  Dunbar  entered,  with 
his  UHual  solemn  faee. 

iMto  this  room  Mrs.  Dunbar  entered  with- 
out further  ceremony,  and  after  walking  a 
few  jia(;e.s  fouml  a  ehair,  into  which  she  sank 
with  sonu'thing  like  a  groan.  Wiggins  look- 
ed at  her  in  silence?,  and  regarding  her  with 
that  earnest  glance  which  was  usual  with 
him.  Mrs.  Dunbar  sat  for  a  few  moments 
without  saying  a  word,  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  hands,  as  it  had  btien  in  Kdith's  room  ; 
but  at  length  she  raised  Iw.r  \wiu\,  and  looked 
at  Wiggins.  Her  face  was  .still  deathly  palc!, 
her  hands  twitched  the  folds  of  her  dr«!ss 
convulsively,  and  her  eyes  had  a  glassy  sta:e 
that  was  almost  terrible.  It  could  be  no 
common  thing  that  had  caiisi'd  such  dec^i) 
emotion  in  one  who  was  usually  so  self-con- 
tained. 

At  last  alio  spoke. 

"  I  have  seen  him !"  said  she,  in  a  low  tone, 
which  was  hardly  raised  al)ov<^  a  whisper. 

Wiggins  looked  at  her  in  sileniu!  for  some 
time,  and  at  length  .said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"He  is  here,  then  ?" 

"Ho  is  here,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar.  "But 
have  you  seen  him  ?  Why  did  you  not  t<'ll 
mo  that  he  was  here  1  The  shock  was  terri- 
ble.    You  ought  to  have  told  mi\" 

Wiggins  sighed. 

"  1  intended  to  do  so,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  did 
not  know  that  he  would  come  so  soon." 

"  When  did  you  see  him  V  asked  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  abruptly. 

"  Yesterday — only  yesterday." 

"  You  knew  him  at  oiu'e,  of  course,  from 
his  extraordinary  likeness  to — to  tht!  other 
one.  1  wish  yon  had  told  nu!.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  you  had  told  me  !  The  shock  was  ter- 
rible." 

And  saying  this,  Mrs.  Dunbar  gave  a  deep 
nigh  that  was  like?  a  groan. 

"The  fact  is," said  Wiggins,  "  I  have  been 
trying  to  conjecture  how  he  came  lu're,  and 
as  I  did  not  think  he  would  come  to  tlu^ 
Hall — at  least,  not  just  yet — I  thought  I 
would  si)are  you.  Forgive  me  if  I  luive 
made  a  mistake.  I  had  no  idea  that  he  was 
coming  to  tin;  Hall." 

"How  could  he  have  come  hero?"  said 
Mrs.  Dunbar.  "  What  possible  thing  could 
have  sent  him?" 

"  Well,"  said  Wiggins,  "  I  can  understand 
that  easily  enough.  This  Miss  Plympton, 
you  know,  as  I  told  ytui,  thri'atened  thiitslie 
would  go  to  see  Lionel.  I  forgot  to  ask  her 
al)()ut  that  when  I  saw  her,  but  it  seems  now 
that  she  must  have  carried  out  her  threat. 
She  has  nmloubtedly  goiui  to  see  Lionel,  and 
Lionel  has  sent  his  boy  instead  of  coming 


himself.  Had  he  only  come  himself,  all 
would  have  been  well.  'J'hat  is  the  chief 
thing  that  I  hoped  tor.  Hut  ho  has  imt  cho- 
sen to  come,  and  so  here  is  the  son  instead 
of  the  father.  It  is  unfortuTuite;  it  delays 
nuitters  most  painfully ;  but  wo  must  bear 
it." 

"  Do  you  think  Lionel  can  suspect  f"  ask- 
ed Mrs.  Dunbar,  anxiously. 

"  .Suspect  ?  Not  he.  I  think  tluit  ho  ob- 
jected to  come  himself  for  a  very  good  rea- 
son. He  has  good  grounds  for  declining  to 
r<;visit  Dalton  Hall.  H(!  has  sent  his  stui  to 
investigate,  and  how  this  enterprise  will  end 
remains  to  be  seen." 

"I  don't  see  how  ho  managed  to  get  into 
the  place  at  all,"  .said  Mrs.  Dunbar.  "  Wil- 
kins  is  usually  very  jiarticular." 

"Well,"  said  Wiggins,  "I  can  understand 
that  only  too  well.  I'nfortunatcly  he  n^cog- 
nized  Wilkinn.  My  porter  is  unknown  here, 
but  any  one  from  Lionel's  place  whose  mem- 
ory reaches  back  ten  years  will  easily  know 
him — the  desperate  poacher  and  almost  mur- 
derer, whoso  all'air  with  the  ganiekeei)er  of 
Dudleigh  Manor  cost  him  a  sentence  of  trans- 
portation for  twenty  years.  His  face  is  oik? 
that  <h)es  not  change  much,  and  so  he  was 
recognized  at  once.  He  came  to  mo  in  a 
terrible  way,  frightened  to  death  for  fear  of 
a  fresh  arrest;  but  I  calmed  him.  I  went  to 
the  lodge  myself,  and  yesterday  I  saw  him. 
I  kiu^w  him  at  once,  of  course." 

"  Hut  did  he  recognize  you  ?"  cried  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  in  a  voice  full  of  fresh  agitation. 

"  I  fear  so,"  said  Wiggins. 

At  this  Mrs.  Dunbar  starttul  to  her  feet, 
and  stared  at  Wiggins  with  a  face  full  of 
terror.  Then  gradually  her  strength  failed, 
and  she  sank  back  again,  but  her  face  still 
retained  the  saint!  look. 

"  He  did  not  recognize  me  at  first,"  said 
WMggins.  "He  seemed  puzzhMl ;  but  as  1 
talked  with  him,  and  heard  his  thrciits  about 
W' ilkins,  and  about  what  he  called  Edith's 
imprisonment,  he  seeuuul  gradually  to  find 
out  all,  or  to  surmise  it.  It  could  not  have? 
been  my  face;  it  must  have  been  my  voict;. 
for  that  unfortunately  has  not  changed,  and 
he  once  kinnv  that  well,  in  the  old  days 
when  he  was  visiting  hero.  At  any  rate,  1' 
made  it  out,  and  fnun  that  moment  tried  in 
iiu))ress  ujion  me  that  I  was  in  his  power." 

"  And  did  you  tell  him— all  ?" 

"I — I  told  him  nothing.  I  let  him  think 
what  he  cbo.se.  1  was  not  going  to  break 
tbrongli  my  plans  for  his  sake,  nor  for  the 
sak(!  of  his  foolish  tlireats.  Hut  in  thus  for- 
bearing I  had  to  tolerate  him,  and  hence 
this  visit.  He  thinks  that  I  am  in  his 
jiower.  He  does  not  underst.'iiid.  Hut  I 
shall  have  to  let  him  come  here,  or  else 
make  every  thing  known,  and  for  that  I  am 
not  at  all  prepareil  as  yet.  Hut  oh,  if  it 
hiid  oiilv  been  Lionel! — if  it  had  only  been 
Lionel!'' 


. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


linisclf,  all 
s  t\w  cliit'f 
Ills  not  ebo- 
son  iimtt'iKl 
s;  it  (U'laj'H 
must  bear 

pect  f"  ask- 
that  he  ol)- 
y  {jDDil  rea- 
icclinin;;  to 
it  his  son  to 
:isu  will  end 

to  get  into 
)ar.     "  Wil- 

undorstand 
ly  he  recog- 
iiiown  here, 
ivhose  nieni- 
casily  know 
almost  mur- 
iit'ket>i)er  oi' 
nee  of  trans- 
s  faee  is  one 
I  so  he  was 
to  me  ill  a 
li  I'or  tear  of 
I.  I  went  to 
,'  I  saw  him. 

'  cried  Mrs. 
igitation. 

to  her  feet, 
faee  fnll  <tf 
ngtli  failed, 
er  face  .still 


first,"  said 
hilt  as  1 
atsahoiit 
.(l  Edith's 
y  to  iind 
I  not  hav(^ 
my  voice, 
mged,  and 
old  days 
my  rate,  li- 
nt tried  l(< 
IS  jiower." 


him  think 
r  to  break 
lor  for  the 
11  thus  for- 
aiul  lieiiee 
am  in  his 
i<l.  Ihit  I 
re.  or  else 
■  that  I  am 
it  oh,  if  it 
only  beeu 


"And  HO,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar,  aff.er  a  long 
silence,  "  lie  knows  all." 

"  He  knows  nothing,"  said  Wiggins.  "  It 
is  his  ignorance  and  my  own  patient  waiting 
fliat  make  him  bold.  But  tell  me  this — did 
he  recognize  you  ?" 

At  this  question  Mrs.  Dunbar  looked  with 
a  fixed,  rigid  stare  at  Wiggins.  Her  lii>s  quiv- 
ered.    For  a  moment  she  could  not  speak. 

"  He — he  looked  at  me,"  said  she,  in  a 
faltering  voice — "  he  looked  at  me,  but  I  was 
so  overcome  at  the  sight  of  him  that  my 
brain  whirled.  I  was  scarcely  conscious  of 
any  thing.  I  heard  him  ask  for  Edith,  and 
I  hurried  away.  But  oh,  liow  har<l— liow 
hard  it  is!  Oh,  was  ever  any  oii<:  in  such  a 
situation  ?  To  see  him  here — to  see  that  face 
and  hear  that  vttice!  Oh,  what  can  1  do — 
what  can  I  do  f 

And  with  these  words  Mrs.  Dunbar  broie 
down.  Once  more  her  head  sank,  and  bury- 
ing lier  faee  in  her  hands,  she  wept  and 
sobbed  convulsively.  Wiggins  looked  at 
lier,  and  as  he  looked  there  came  over  his 
face  an  expression  of  unutterable  pity  and 
sympathy,  but  he  said  not  a  word.  As  he 
l(H>ked  at  her  ho  leaned  his  head  on  liis 
hand,  and  a  low,  deep,  prolonged  sigh  es- 
caped him,  that  seemed  to  come  from  the 
depths  of  his  being. 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  long  time.  Mrs. 
Dunbar  was  tlu;  (irst  to  break  that  BJlcnce. 
.She  roused  herself  by  a  great  ett'ort,  and 
said, 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  his  object  may 
l)e  in  coming  here,  or  what  Lionel's  object 
may  be  in  sending  him?'' 

"Well,"  said  Wiggins,  "  I  d(m't  know.  I 
thought  at  first  when  I  saw  him  that  Lionel 
had  some  idea  of  looking  after  the  estate,  to 
see  if  he  could  get  control  of  it  in  any  way; 
but  this  call  seems  to  show  that  Edith  en- 
ters into  their  design  in  some  way.  J'erhaps 
he  thinks  of  paying  attentions  to  lier,"  he 
added,  in  a  tone  of  liitteriiess. 

"And  would  that  bo  a  thing  to  he  dread- 
ed?" asked  Mrs.  Dunbar,  anxiously. 

"  Most  certainly,"  said  Wiggins. 

"Would  you  blame  the  sou  for  the  mis- 
deeds of  the  father?"  she  asked,  in  the  sanu^ 
tone. 

"No,"  said  Wiggins;  "but  when  the  sou 
is  so  evidently  a  counterpart  of  the  father,  I 
should  say  that  Edith  ought  to  be  preserved 
from  him." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar.  "  I'm 
afraid  you  judge  too  hastily.  It  may  be  for 
the  best.     Who  knows?" 

"  It  can  only  be  for  the  worst,"  said  Wig- 
gins, with  Holeinn  emphasis. 

"There  is  a  woman  with  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  siuldenly  ch:inging  the  eouversa- 
tioii.     "  Who  can  she  be  ?" 

"  A  woman  ?     What  kind  of  a  woman  ?" 

"Elderly.  I  never  saw  her  before.  He 
calls  himself  Mowbrav,  and  she  is  Mrs.  Mow- 


bray. What  can  be  the  meaning  of  thatf 
Tho  woman  seems  old  enough  to  be  hi.H 
mother." 

"  Old  ?"  said  Wiggins.  "  Ah — Mowbray — 
li'in!  It  must  bo  some  design  of  his  on  Edith. 
He  brings  this  woman,  so  as  to  make  a  formal 
call.  He  will  not  tell  her  who  he  is.  I  don't 
like  the  look  of  this,  and,  what  is  worse,  I 
don't  know  what  to  do.  I  could  i>roliibil 
his  visits,  but  that  would  \w  to  give  ui>  my 
plans,  and  I  can  not  do  that  yet.  I  must 
run  the  risk.  As  for  Edith,  shti  is  mad.  .She 
is  beyond  my  control.  She  drives  me  to  de- 
spair." 

'•  I  do  not  see  what  danger  there  is  for 
Edith  ill  his  visits,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar,  in  a 
uiournfiil  voi(;e. 

"Danger!"  said  Wiggins.  "A  man  like 
that !" 

"You  are  judging  liim  too  hastily,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunbar. 

Wiggins  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  sv  mo- 
ment, and  then  said, 

"  1  lio))e  I  am,  I'm  sure,  for  your  sake;  but 
I'm  afraid  that  I  am  right  and  that  you  are 
wrong." 

After  some  further  conversation  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar retired,  carrying  with  her  in  her  face 
and  in  her  heart  that  deep  concern  and  that 
strong  agitation  which  had  been  excited  by 
the  visit  of  Mowliray.  Edith,  when  she  next 
saw  her,  noticed  this,  and  for  a  long  time 
afterward  wondcrecl  to  her.siilf  why  it  was 
that  such  a  change  had  come  over  the  house- 
keeper. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

ANOTHKU     VI.SIT. 

Anot'T  two  weeks  iifterward  the  Mew- 
brays  called  again.  Edith  was  a  little  sur- 
lirised  at  this,  for  she  had  not  expected  an- 
other visit ;  hut  on  the  whole  she'  felt  glad, 
and  could  not  help  indulging  in  some  vague 
hope  that  this  call  would  be  for  her  good. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  she  to  Mrs.  Mowbray, 
that  I   hav(^  not  been  able  to   return  your 
'  call.     But  I  liiivi^  already  explained  how  I 
am  imiuisoned  here." 
i      "  Oh,  my  dear."  said  Jlrs.  Mowbray,  "  pray 
'  don't  speak  of  that.     We  feel  for  you,  I  as- 
sure you.     Nothing  is  more  unpleasant  than 
a  bereavement.     It  makes  such  a  change  in 
j  all  one's  life,  you  know.     And  then  black 
I  does  not  become  sonic^  jieojde  ;  they  p(>rsist 
in  visiting,  too;    but   then,  do  you  know, 
I  they  really  look  to  mt!  like  jierfect  frights. 
j  Not  that  you  look  otherwise  than  well,  dear 
I  Miss  Daltoii.     In  fact,  I  shoiihl  think  that 
in  any  dress  yon  would  look  perftu;tly  charm- 
ing; hut  that  is  because  you  are  a  brunette. 
:  Stuiie  complexions  ar«!  positividy  out  of  all 
keeping  w  itli  black.     Have  you  ever  noticed 
that  f     Oh  yes,  dear  Miss  Daltoii,"  continued 
Mrs.  Mowbray,  after  a  short  pause.     "  Bni- 


56 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


!  '^ 


1;'  I 
I  ■  1 

''I  i 


i.r  I 


"IT    WAS    A    CHII.U.' 


iiottes  arc  hest  in  black  —  mark  my  words, 
now ;  and  blondoH  arc,  never  elfeetive  in  that 
eolor.  They  <h>  better  in  brijj;ht  colors.  It 
is  singular,  isn't  it  ?  Yon,now,n»y  dear,  may 
wear  black  Avitli  inipnnity;  and  since,  you 
are  called  on  in  the  mysterious  dispensation 
of  Providence  to  mourn,  you  oUfj;ht  at  least 
to  be  f^rateful  that  you  are  a  brunette.  If 
you  were,  a  blonde,  I  really  do  not  know 
what  would  ever  become  of  you.  Now,  I  am 
a  blonde — l)ut  in  sj)ite  of  tliat  I  have  been 
calle<l  on  to  mourn.     It — it  was  a  child." 

As  Mrs.  Mowbray  said  this  she  api)lied  the 
handkerchief  and  smelling-bottle  for  a  few 
minutes. 

"  A  child!"  said  Edith,  in  wonder. 

"Yes,  dear — a  sweet  son,  aged  twelve, 
leaving  nio  to  mourn  over  him.  And  as  I 
was  saying,  my  mourning  did  not  become  my 
ccnnplcxiou  at  all.  That  was  what  tr(nil)led 
me  so.  Keally,  a  blonde  ought  never  to  lose 
friends — it  is  so  unbecoming.  Positively, 
Providence  ought  to  arrange  things  differ- 
ently." 

"It  would  be  indeed  well  if  blondes  or 
any  other  i)eoi)le  could  be  saved  from  sor- 
row," said  Eilitli. 

"It  would  be  charming,  Avonld  it  not?" 
said  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  Now,  when  my  child 
died,  I  mourned  for  him  most  deei)ly — in- 
deed, as  deej)  as  that,"  she  said,  stretching 
out  her  hands  so  as  to  nwasure  a  space  of 
about  eighteen  inches — "  most  dceitly :  a  bor- 
der around  the  skirt  of  solid  crape  half  a 


yard  wide;  bonnet  smothered  in  crape;  and 
really  and  positively  I  myself  was  literally 
all  cra]»e,  I  do  believe;  and  with  my  light 
complexion,  what  pcojde  could  have  thought, 
I'm  sure  I  do  not  know." 

"There  is  not  much  to  choose  between 
mother  aiul  son,"  thought  E<lith.  "  They  are 
ca])able  of  any  baseness,  they  are  so  licart- 
less.  There  is  no  Iiojm!  here."  Yet  in  spite 
of  such  thoughts  she.  did  not  shun  them. 
Why  not  ?  How  could  an  honorable  nature 
like  hers  associate  with  siudi  people?  He- 
twe(in  them  and  herself  was  a  deep  gulf, 
and  no  sympathy  between  them  was  possi- 
ble. The  reason  why  she  did  not  shun  them 
lay  solely  in  her  own  loneliness.  Any  thing 
in  the  shape;  of  a  human  being  was  wel- 
come rather  than  otherwise,  aiuleven  j)coi)le 
whom  she  despised  served  to  mitigate  the 
gloom  of  her  situation.  They  nuule  the  time 
piiss  by,  and  that  of  itself  was  something. 

"I  went  into  half-mourning  as  soon  as  I 
could,"  continued  Mrs.  Mowbray ;  "  but  even 
half-mourning  was  very  disagreeable.  You 
may  depend  upon  it,  no  shade  of  black  ought 
ever  to  be  brought  near  a  blond(*.  Half- 
mourning  is  quite  as  bad  as  deep  mourning." 

"  You  nu'st  have  had  very  nuich  to  bear," 
said  Edith,  absently. 

"  I  should  think  I  had.  I  really  could  not 
go  into  society,  except,  of  course,  to  m.ake 
calls,  for  that  one  munt  do,  and  even  then  ' 
felt  like  a  guy — for  how  absurd  I  nmst  lia.e 
looked  with  such  ai;  iidiarmonious  adjust- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


57 


mpiit  of  colors !  But  yon,  my  dciir  MIhh  Dal- 
toii.Hceni  niiule  hy  iiiitiire  to  go  in  nionrniiifj;." 

"  Y«'H,"  Miiid  Editli,  with  a  sigli  which  Hhe 
conld  not  Hnj^jrcss ;  "  iiatnrc  has  been  laviwh 
to  nio  in  that  way — ^of  hitc." 

"  Yon  really  onght  always  to  mourn,"  said 
Mrs. Mowbray,  in  a  sprightly  tone. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  shall  always  have  to,  wheth- 
er I  wish  it  or  not,"  said  Edith,  with  another 
sigh. 

"  Yon  are  such  a  remarkable  brunette — 
qnit(^  an  Italian  ;  your  complexion  is  almost 
olive,  and  yonr  hair  is  th(!  blackest  I  ever 
saw.     It  is  all  dark  with  you." 

"Yes,  it  is  indeed  all  dark  with  me," said 
Edith,  sadly. 

"  The  child  that  I  lost,"  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray, after  a  pause,  "  was  a  very  nice  child, 
but  \w,  was  not  at  all  like  my  s(tn  here.  Yon 
often  find  great  ditterences  in  families.  I 
sup]iose  he  resembhsd  one  side  of  the  family, 
and  the  captain  the  other." 

"  You  have  lived  hero  for  a  good  many 
years?"  said  Edith,  abruptly  changing  the 
conversation. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  It's  a  very 
nice  county — don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  I  really  have  not  had  an  oi>portnnity  of 
judging." 

"  No  ?  Of  course  not ;  you  are  mourning. 
But  when  you  are  done  mourning,  and  go 
into  society,  you  will  Hiul  many  very  nice 
]ieo|)l(!.  There  are  the  Congreves,  the  Wil- 
tons, the  Symbolta,  and  Lord  Connomor«', 
and  the  Earl  of  Frontington,  and  a  thousand 
delightful  people  whom  one  likes  to  know." 

"  You  do  not  belong  to  the  county,  do 
you  ?" 

"N — no;  myft  milybelongs  to  Berks,"said 
Mrs.  Mowbray.  "  Yon  don't  know  any  thing 
about  Berks,  I  suppose  ?     I'm  a  Fydill." 

"A  fiddle?"  said  Edith,  somewhat  bewil- 
dered, for  Mrs.  Mowbray  j>ronounced  her 
family  name  in  that  way,  and  appeared  to 
take  great  pride  in  it. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "a  Fydill — one  of  the 
oldest  families  thi^re.  Every  one  has  heard 
of  the  Fydills  of  Berks.  I  su])poHe  you  havts 
never  been  there,  and  so  have  not  had  the 
op])(trtunity  of  hearing  about  them." 

"  No,"  said  Edith  ;  "  I  have  passed  most 
of  my  life  at  school." 

"  Of  course.  Yon  are  so  deliciously  young. 
And  oh,  Miss  Dalton,  what  adeligiitfnl  thing 
it  is  to  be  young!  One  is  so  admired,  and 
has  so  many  advantages!  It  is  a  satl,  sad 
thing  tliat  one  grows  old  so  soon.  I'm  so 
gray,  I'm  sims  I  look  like  «iighty.  But,  aft- 
er all,  I'm  not  so  very  (dd.  There's  Lady 
Poyntz,  twice  my  age,  who  goes  into  society 
most  energetically;  and  old  Miss  I)e  Fris- 
sure,  who,  by-the-way,  is  enornKuisly  rich, 
actually  rides  (ui  hoi'seback,  and  she  is  old 
enough  to  be  my  mother;  ami  Mrs.  Hanni^, 
the  rich  widow — you  nnist  have  heard  about 
her — positively  does  nothing  but  dance ;  and 


old  Mrs.  Scott,  the  brewer's  wife,  who  has 
recently  come  here,  whenever  she  gives  balls 
for  her  daughters,  always  dances  more  than 
any  one.  All  these  jjcople  are  very  nnich 
o]«ler  than  I  am ;  and  so  I  say  to  myself, 
'  Helen,  my  dear,  yon  are  (piite  a  girl ;  why 
shonhln't  yon  enjoy  yourself?'  And  so  I  do 
enjoy  myself." 

"  I  sujipose,  then,  that  yon  like  dancing!" 
said  Edith,  who,  in  si)ite  of  her  sadness, 
found  a  mournful  amusement  in  the  idea  of 
this  wonum  dancing. 

"I'm  )iar-tic-n-lar-ly  fond  of  dancing," 
said  Jlrs.  Mowbray,  with  strong  emphasis. 
'■Only  the  young  men  are  so  rude!  They 
lly  about  after  young  chits  of  girls,  and 
don't  notice  nie.  And  so  I  don't  ofttMi  have 
an  oi>portunity,  yon  know.  But  then!  is  a 
(iernian  gentleman  here— a  baron,  my  dear 
— and  he  is  veiy  polite.  He  sometinu's  asks 
me  to  dance,  and  I  enjoy  it  very  ninih,  only 
he  is  so  short  anil  fat  and  bald  that  I  fear  he 
looks  very  ridiculous.  But  the  yoinig  men. 
Miss  Ualton,  are  very,  very  neglectful." 

"That  is  a  pity,"  said  Edith. 

"  Oh,  they  are  so,  I  <lo  assure  yon.  Now 
that  is  the  v<>ry  thing  that  I  have  tried  to 
impress  upon  the  captain.  '  My  dearest 
boy,'  I  have  always  said,  'mind  the  ladies. 
That  is  the  first  and  highest  duty  of  a  true 
gentleman.  I'articidarly  those  ladies  who 
are  mature.  Don't  contine  your  attentions 
to  giddy  ami  thoughtless  girls.  There  are 
nuiiiy  ladies  at  every  ball  of  estimable  char- 
acter, and  sometimes  even  of  considerable 
wealth,  who  deserve  your  attentions  far 
nntre  than  thosc^  ])oor  young  creatures  who 
have  nothing  more  to  recommend  them  than 
their  childish  good  looks.'  And  I  trust  my 
son  has  not  failed  to  jirofit  by  my  advice. 
At  balls  he  does  not  ofien  seek  out  the  young, 
but  rather  the  old.  Indei'd,  so  marked  is  his 
preference  for  married  ladies  that  all  the 
younger  ones  notice  it  and  resent  it,  sr) 
that  they  have  formed  really  (luite  an  aver- 
sion to  liini ;  ami  now,  whether  he  will  or 
not,  h(!  has  to  dance  exclusively  with  the 
elder  ones.  Once,  he  danced  with  me,  and 
it  was  a  i)roud  nunnent  for  me,  I  assure  you." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
look  at  Jlowbray.  "But  still,  is  it  not 
strange  that  young  ladies  should  refuse  to 
dance  with  one  who  is  an  otlicer  and  a  gen- 
tlennm?" 

During  the  whole  of  this  conversation  the 
eajttain  had  saiil  nothing,  l)nt  had  be<'u  sit- 
ting turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  book,  and 
furtively  watching  Edith's  face  and  manner. 
Wlien  the  conversation  turned  upon  him. 
however,  his  face  Hushed,  and  Ins  looked 
angrily  at  Mrs.  Mowbray.  At  last,  as  Edith 
sjAoke,  he  startetl,  and  said  : 

"  Se(!  here,  now!  I  don't  think  it's  alto- 
gether the  correct  thing  to  nuikt?  rcnnu'ks 
about  a  gentleman  in  his  jireseuct;.  I'm 
aware  that  ladies  are  given  to  gossip,  but 


Ill 


IB    'i 


r,8 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


IW. 


11, 1 


«.■■. 


tliny  Rpnornlly  do  it  holiind  a  ffllow'H  bank. 
I've  (loim  nothing;  to  (Ichctvii  this  JuHt  now." 

"Tlieri!  wan  iiotliiiijr  oll't'iiaive  in  my  re- 
mark," Haid  Eflitli,  iiuictly. 

"  Oh,"  Huid  Mi'H.  Mowliray,  "  my  son  is  very 
f|iii(',k  and  very  HeuHitivc,  and  very  nict  on 
a  jioint  of  lionor.  lie  is  tlie  mont  piiiKstil- 
i-oii8  man  yon  ever  saw ;"  and  Mi'm.  Mow- 
l)ray  held  np  Inii-  hands,  lost  in  annizement 
at  t!ie  conception  which  was  in  her  mind  of 
the  pnnetilionHness  of  lier  son.  "  IJnt,  my 
dear  Miss  Dalton,"  she  contiiined,  "he  is 
(|Mick  to  for^jive.     He  don't  hear  malicc!." 

"  Haven't  I  said,"  jfrowltMl  Mowbray,  "that 
I  don't  like  this?  Talk  of  me  bt^biiid  my 
back,  if  you  choose.  Yon  can't  imaj^ine  that 
it's  particularly  pleasant  for  a  fellow  to  sit 
here  jind  listen  to  all  tiiat  rot." 

"  Ibit,  mv  son,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  fond- 
ly, "it'sali  love." 

"Oh,  Itother  your  love!"  nnittered  this 
affectionate  son. 

"  Well,  then,  yon  naiiKbty,  sensitive  boy," 
said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  "I  will  come  here  l)y 
myself,  and  tell  dear  Miss  Dalton  all  about 
you  behind  your  liack.  I  will  tell  her  about 
some  of  your  adventures  in  London,  and  she 
will  SCO  what  a  nanj^hty,  wicked,  rakish  fel- 
low you  have  been.  He  is  sadly  like  mi,', 
dear  Miss  Dalton — so  sensitive,  and  so  fond 
of  society." 

Edith  gave  a  polite  smile,  but  said  noth- 
ing. 

Then  the  conversation  lagged  for  a  little 
while.  At  length  Edith,  full  of  the  idea 
that  Wiggins  bad  sent  them  for  some  pur- 
pose, and  desiri>ns  of  finding  out  ■whether 
her  suspicions  were  correct  or  not,  said,  in  a 
(■areless  tone, 

"  I  suppose  you  know  this  Wiggins  very 
well  r 

"Mr.Wiggina?"said  .Mrs. Mowbray, quick- 
ly. "Oh  yes;  my  son  and  he  often  meet, 
though  for  my  part  I  know  little  or  nothing 
about  the  man." 

"  Pooh  I"  cried  Mowbr.ay,  interrupting  her. 
"Miss  Dalton,  Mrs.  Mowltray  is  so  talkative 
that  she  often  says  things  that  she  docs  not 
mean,  or,  at  least,  things  that  are  liable  to 
mislead  others.  I  have  met  AViggins,  it  is 
true,  l)ut  do  not  imagine  that  he  is  a  friend 
of  mine.  On  the  contrary,  he  has  reason  to 
hate  mo  (juite  as  nnich  as  he  bates  yon. 
Your  idea  of  any  connection  between  him 
and  me,  which  I  jilainly  .see  you  hint  at,  is 
altogether  wrong,  and  yon  would  not  havt^ 
even  suspected  tliis  if  you  knew  me  better." 

"  You  came  liere  so  easily,"  said  Edith, 
"that  I  very  naturally  supposed  that  you 
were  on  fri<>ndly  terms." 

"  I  come  hero  easily,"  said  Mowbi'ay,  "  not 
Ix'canse  be  is  my  friend,  but  becanst!  he  is»8o 
afraid  of  me  that  he  does  not  dare  to  kec]) 
me  back." 

"Yon  understand,  then,"  said  Edith,  "tbat 
he  keeps  others  back.      If  you  have  such 


jiower  over  him,  how  is  it  that  yon  can 
calmly  stand  by  and  see  him  imprison  u  free- 
born  and  a  higii-boru  English  lady  F" 

"Oh,"  nnittered  Mowbray,  "  I  don't  know 
any  thing  about  that.  He  is  your  guardian, 
and  yon  an*  his  ward,  and  the  law  is  u  curi- 
ous thing  that  I  do  imt  understand." 

"Yet  Mrs.  Mowbray  says  that  you  are 
distinguished  for  your  knowledge  of  legal 
points,"  said  Edith. 

Mowbray  madti  no  reply,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments Mrs.  Mowbray  rose  to  go. 

"  Positively,"  said  she,  "  my  dear  Miss 
Dalton,  we  nuist  see  more  of  one  another ; 
and  since  your  mourning  contines  you  here, 
I  nnist  come  often,  and  I  know  very  well 
that  we  shall  all  be  great  friends." 


lUiCAL'SK  I  ni;AT  niM. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  STROKE  VOU  LinKRTY. 

Trn^-  Mowbrays  came  occn.sionally,  l)nt 
no  others  ever  managed  to  get  through  th(^ 
gates.  Edith  conld  not  help  feeling  a  .sort 
of  resentment  against  these  ]>cople,  who 
thus  were  altle  to  do  what  no  others  could 
do,  and  came  to  her  so  easily  when(!ver  they 
wished.  Still  she  did  not  think  it  worth 
whih^  to  refuse  to  see  them.  They  b(^guiled 
the  monotony  of  her  life,  and  she  still  had  a 
half  hope  that  something  might  result  from 
their  visits.  Even  if  they  W(;re  in  the  pay 
of  Wiggins,  as  she  believed,  they  yet  might 
fed  inclined  to  assist  her,  from  the  hope  of 
larger  pay,  and  she  hoped  that  the  occasion 
flight  arise  in  which  she  might  be  able  to 
hint  at  stich  a  thing.  As  yet  they  met  her 
on   an  eqiml   footing,  and  in  spite  of  her 


I 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


68 


A^J 


lally,  ^mt 
liDugh  the 
)in<;  ii  sort 
iiplo,  who 
kicrs  could 
cvor  tlicy 
it  worth 
•  bcgwikMl 
ill  had  a 
bsitlt  from 
|ii  tho  pay 
yet  iniyht 
|o  hope  of 
occasion 
Ijo  able  to 
met  her 
of  her 


contempt  for  them,  she  <liil  not  (piite  like 
the  idea  of  regularly  oft'erinj;  them  a  hrihe 
to  a.s.siHt  her.  Yet  she  tlM)ii<;lit  that  the 
time  niijrht  come  wlu-n  slii;  could  do  so,  and 
this  thoufj(ht  sustained  Iier. 

In  her  visits  Mrs.  M(»\vl)ray  still  prattled 
and  chattered  in  her  usual  manner  ahout 
her  usinil  themes.  Dress,  society,  and  the 
incivility  of  ycuinjj  men  seeujcd  to  be  her 
favorite  topics,  Tbe  cajitain  usually  camti 
witli  her,  and  seemed  desirous  to  do  tlie 
a;ireeal>lo  to  Edith,  but  fitiier  from  a  natural 
lack  of  gallantry,  or  from  tlie  dis('()nra;;ing 
treatment  wliich  he  received  from  her,  ht; 
was  somewhat  unsuccessful. 

About  two  months  after  his  first  call  the 
cai>taiu  came  alone.  H(!  was  on  jiorse- 
back,  and  was  accompanied  liy  a  majinilicent 
Newfoundland  dog,  which  Edith  had  no- 
ticed ()uc(!  or  twice  belore.  On  seeing  Edith 
lie  showed  nn)re  animation  than  was  usual 
with  him,  and  evidently  was  endeavoring, 
to  the  liest  of  his  power,  to  nnike  liimself 
agreeable. 

"I  liav(!  come,  Miss  Dalton,"  said  he,  aft- 
er till!  usual  greetings,  "to  see  if  you  would 
do  mc  the  honor  of  going  out  ritliiig  with 
me." 

'•Riding?"  said  Edith;  "yon  are  very 
kind,  I  am  sure;  but  \\ill  yon  ]iardon  me  if 
I  lirst  ask  you  where  you  projiose  t(j  take 
me  ?" 

"Oh,  about  the  park,"  said  Mowbray, 
somewhat  meekly. 

"Tlie  jtark?"  said  Edith,  in  a  tone  of  dis- 
a]>pointun'nt.  "  Is  that  all  ?  Why,  (.'aittain 
.Nlowbray,  tliis  park  is  only  my  jail  yard, 
and  to  go  about  it  can  not  be  very  pleasant 
to  .1  prisoner,  either  on  horseback  or  on 
foot.  Ibit  surely  I  do  not  understand  you. 
I  must  be  too  hasty.  Of  course  yon  mean  to 
do  as  every  gentleman  would  do,  and  let 
the  lady  stdect  the  place  where  she  wishes 
to  go  ?" 

"I  assure  yon,  ^lisa  Dalton,"  said  Mow- 
bray, "  I  should  be  most  liajipy  to  do  so  if  I 
w(!re  .able  ;  but  you  are  not  allowed  to  go  out 
of  the  park,  yon  know." 

"Who  iirohibits  nie,  pray?" 

"Wiggins." 

"  Wiggins !  And  why  should  you  care  for 
!iny  of  his  regulations  ?  Do  you  not  know 
who  lit!  is,  and  what  ho  is,  and  in  what  posi- 
ti(Hi  he  stands  toward  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,"  saiilMowl)r;iy.  in  a  hesitating 
voice,  "  he  is  your  guardian,  you  know." 

"  Hut  I  am  of  age,"  said  Edith.  "  Guard- 
ians can  not  imprison  their  wards  as  lu! 
imprisons  me.  I  am  of  age.  I  own  this 
l>lace.  It  is  mine.  He  may  have  somt!  right 
to  attend  to  its  business  for  the  present,  but 
be  has  no  right  over  me.  The  law  protects 
me.     You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

"  Y(!8,  true  ;  but — ah — you  know — ah — 
you  are  really  so  very  pecnUarly  situated, 
Miss  Dalton,  that  I  should  not  like  to  do  any 


thing  which  might  compromise  your — ah — 
position." 

"  Surely,  Captain  Mowbray,  yon  nnistnow 
b(!  speaking  without  thinking.  In  what 
way,  pray,  can  it  compromise  my  position 
to  ride  witli  you  through  the  village  streets, 
rather  than  over  the  roads  of  the  jiarkf" 

"  Wi^U — ah — you  are  iu  mourning,  yoti 
know." 

"  Ueally  I  do  not  see  what  that  has  to  do 
witli  it.  If  I  have  tlit!  sorrow  of  Itereave- 
meiit,  that  is  no  reason  why  I  sjiouid  have 
tbe  additional  sorrow  of  im]nisoiinie!it." 

"  Oh,  you  know,  Wiggins  would  make  a 
fuss  about  it,  and  put  you  to  no  end  of 
trouble." 

Mowbray's  unwillingness  to  help  her,  and 
hesitation,  had  onc(!  befort!  roused  Edith's 
indignation  ;  but  now  she  believed  him  to 
b(!  in  Wiggins's  emi)]oy,  and  therefore  felt 
calm,  and  talke<l  witli  him  chielly  for  tlu! 
sake  of  seeing  ^^hat  she  could  get  out  of 
him,  either  in  the  way  of  explanation  or 
concession. 

"  When  you  s])eak  of  trouble,"  .said  she, 
"I  think  it  is  I  who  will  give  troubh!  to 
him  rather  than  undergo  it  from  him." 

"Oh,  well — either  way."  said  Mowbray, 
"  there  would  be  trouble,  and  that  is  whatl 
wish  to  .avoid." 

"(ienllemen  are  not  usually  so  timid 
about  encountering  trou))le  on  behalf  of  a 
lady,"  said  Edith,  coldly. 

"Oh,  well,  \t)n  know,  if  it  were  ordiuitry 
trouble  I  wouldn't  mind  it,  but  this  is  legal 
trouble.  Why,  before  I  knew  where  I  was 
I  might  be  imprisoned,  and  how  would  I 
like  that?" 

"Not  very  well,  as  I  can  testifv,"  said 
Edith. 

"  Helieve  me.  Miss  Dalton,"  said  Mowbray, 
with  a  desperate  effort  to  appear  earnest  and 
devoted,  "  there  is  nothiiig  that  I  would  not 
do  for  you,  and  I  feel  exceedingly  jiained 
that  you  are  not  (tontent  with  your  jiie.scnt 
])ositioi  ;  but  you  see  I  do  not  want  to  put 
myself  >:  the  clutches  of  the  law  if  I  can 
help  it.  Wiggins  is  an  en(!my  of  mine,  as  I 
told  you,  and  only  tolerates  me  here  beciinso 
he  dare  not  prevent  me — lU'ither  he  nor  his 
nnin  ;  but — ah — you  know — that  is — I  mean 
—  he — ah — he  watches  me  very  closely,  you 
know,  and  if  I  were  to  do  any  thing  that 
he  could  lay  hold  of,  he  would  b(!  very  glad 
to  tlo  so,  and  put  me  to  trouble  and  expeusu 
— no  end." 

Here  Edith  understood  once  more  a  pro- 
fession of  enmity  against  Wiggins,  but 
whether  it  was  real  or  not  she  could  not  t(!ll. 
.Sli(!  b(>lieved,  rather,  that  it  was  ])retended. 

"  Oh,  I  beg  of  you  to  make  no  more  ex- 
cuses," said  she.  "  Y'our  explanations  are 
quite  satisfactory." 

"  I  have  had  trouble  enough  from  law- 
yers," continued  Mowbray,  "  and  don't  want 
to  have  any  more." 


60' 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"  That  is  quite  prudent  in  v(ni,  and  care- 
ful." 

"  The  fiFHt  thi?ig  th  >  a  man  of  the  worhl 
learnH,  MInh  Daltoii,"  said  tlie  ciiptain,  in  a 
confidential  tone,  "  is  to  tal<e  care  of  hiin- 
Holf.  That  in  a  leHson  that  I  liave  learned 
hy  hitter  experience,  and  I  liave  rcKolved, 
ainon^  otlua-  thin<j;s,  and  ahove,  all,  nev<-r, 
under  any  eireunistaneeH,  to  i>ut  myself 
within  the  grasp  of  the  lawyers;  and  if  you 
only  kiu'w  what  hother  I've  had,  you 
wouldn't  lil!iin(^  ni<!." 

"  I  fear  that  I  must  have  f;iven  you  great 
l)ain,  then,"  said  Kdith,  "  Ity  ev<'n  hinting 
at  such  a  tiling  as  talking  my  ]iart  and  help- 
ing niP.  You  feel  so  strongly  ahout  your 
personal  safety  tluit  you  must  have  l)eeu 
deeply  agitated  at  such  a  proposal  from  me." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  the  captain,  not  choosing 
to  notice  the*  sarcasm  of  Kdith's  tone,  "one 
grows  wiser  from  ex[)erienco,  you  know,  and 
mine  has  heen  a  bitter  one.  I  would  gladly 
open  your  gates  for  you,  I  assure  yon,  if  I 
could  do  it  without  danger,  and  if  Wiggins 
had  no  authority  ;  hut  as  it  is.  I  really  do  not 
see  how  I  can  i)ossil)ly  interferi'." 

"  Well,  for  that  miitt.'r,"  said  Edith,  "  if 
it  were  not  for  Wiggins,  I  suppose  I  could 
open  the  gates  for  myself,  and  so  I  could 
save  you  even  that  trouble." 

Mowhray  made  no  reply  to  this,  hut  mere- 
ly stroked  his  nnistache. 

"After  all,"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  don't  see 
why  you  should  he  so  <liscout(Mited  here. 
There  are  many  who  would  he  glad  to  live 
as  you  do,  in  so  magnilieent  a  house,  with 
such  nohle  grounds.  You  have  every  thing 
that  yini  want.  W'hy  you  should  ht!  so  dis- 
contented I  can  not  imagine.  If  you  did  get 
out,  and  live  in  the  village,  you  would  not 
like  it.  It's  not  a  pleasant  place.  For  my 
l)art  I  would  much  rather  liv(!  where  you  do 
than  where  I  do.  If  you  would  confine  your 
attention  to  this  jdace,  and  give  up  all  ideas 
of  getting  away,  you  might  he-  as  happy  as 
the  day  is  long." 

Saying  this,  the  captain  looked  at  Edith 
to  see  the.  effect  of  his  words.  Edith  was 
looking  at  him  with  a  very  strange  expres- 
sion, something  like  what  may  apjiear  in  the 
face  of  the  naturalist  at  discovering  an  ani- 
mal of  some  new  species — an  expression  of 
interest  and  8ur|)rise  and  eiiriosity. 

"  So  those  are  your  sentinieiits  f"  she  said ; 
and  that  was  all. 

"  Y(!s,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,"  said  Edith,  "it  may  ho  my  mis- 
fortune, but  I  think  differently." 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  the  cai)taiu,  in  a  more 
animated  tone,  "  since  we  can  not  agree  in 
this  discussion,  why  not  drop  it?  Will  you 
not  ride  with  nic  about  the  i)ark  ?  I'm  sure 
I  like  the  park  very  well.  I  have  not  be- 
come so  tired  of  it  as  you  have.  I  have  a 
very  nice  lady's  horte,  which  is  (luite  at  your 
disjiosal." 


At  this  request  Edith  was  silent  for  a  few 
m(Miients.     Tins  man  himself  grew  more  ab- 
horrent to  her,  if  jtossible,  every  moment; 
I  but  her  desire  to  find  out  what  his  ]iiirposes 
were,  and  her  iKqie  of  making  use  of  him 
j  still,  in  sjiite  of  jircsent  ajipearances,  made 
her  think  that  it  might  be  best  to  acce[»t  his 
i  offer. 

I       "  Oh,  well,"  said  she,  "  I  have  no  objec- 
j  tion,  since  you  choose  to  subject  me  to  such 
'  limitations,  and  I  suppose  I  must  add  that  I 
thank  you." 

"Don't  speak  of  thanks.  Miss  Dalton,"  said 
Mowbray.  "  Let  me  say  rather  that  I  thank 
you  from  the  liottoiu  of  my  heart.'' 

Two  days  after  thisMowbrav  again  called 
on  Edith.  This  time,  iu  addition  to  his  own 
horse,  he  brought  another  with  a  lady's  sad- 
dle, and  was  followed  by  the  Newfound- 
land (big.  Edith  w.'is  »0(ui  dressed  for  the 
ride;,  and  Joined  Mowbray  in  the  drawing- 
room.  As  they  went  out  the  dog  was  sitting 
on  the  portico,  and  leaped  forward  joyfully 
iit  the  sight  of  his  master,  but  suddenly  re- 
treated in  fear. 

"  It's  all  very  well,  Miss  Dalton,"  said 
Mowbray,  "  for  them  to  talk  about  cruelty 
to  animals,  but  the  only  way  you  can  makt! 
them  fond  of  yon  is  hy  fear.  See  how  that 
dog  loves  mo.  And  why  ?  Because  I  beat 
him." 

There  was  somevhiug  in  these  words,  and 
in  the  tone  in  whicfi  they  were  spoken,  that 
afforded  Edith  a  new  view  of  Mowbray's 
character.  There  were  a  ferocity  and  a  cru- 
elty there  which  were  quite  in  keeping  with 
the  iialtriness  ami  meauucBS  whi(di  ]w  had 
already  (evinced.  But  Edith  kept  silence. 
In  a  few  moments  they  were  mounted,  and 
rode  away  side;  by  side. 

As  they  turned  the  corner  of  the  Hall 
Edith  saw  a  face  among  the  trees — white, 
solemn,  watchful,  stern — and  the  sight  gave 
her  a  strange  sliock,  for  it  was  th<*  face  of 
Wigg';is.  It  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment 
that  this  man  must  hato  Mowbray,  for  the 
glance  which  he  gave  was  hy  no  means  that 
of  a  friend  or  confederate.  Mowbray  might, 
thert>fore,  have  sjtoken  the  truth  when  he 
said  that  Wiggins  hated  him,  and  if  so,  lie 
might  now  be  dreading  the  presencti  of  this 
unwelc(uuo  guest.  This  tlmiight  was  not 
unpleasant,  for  though  Mowbray  could  not 
he  a  friend,  she  thought  it  uot  a  bad  substi- 
tute that  he  was  at  least  an  enemy  of  Wig- 
gins. 

The  consequence  was  that  .she  really  en- 
joyed the  ride  ;  and  Mowhray,  seeing  her  in 
good  spirits,  thought  that  it  arose  from  more 
favorable  inclinations  toward  himself,  and 
exerted  himself  to  please.  They  rode  at  a 
rapid  p.aco  through  the  long  avenues,  under 
magnificent  overarching  trees,  and  over 
fiehls  and  meadows.  Mowhray  was  a  fine 
horseman,  and  Edith  had  been  accustomed 
to  riding  from  childhood,  and  liked  nothing 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


61 


t  for  a  tew 
,•  more  iil)- 
iiioiiifnt ; 
s  imri)t)S0H 
me  (if  liiiii 

ICJ'H,   IlliKlt! 

iicct'itt  liis 

I  no  oltjec- 

ino  to  HIIC}| 

add  that  I 

ilton,"Haid 

lat  I  thank 

'J 

;fain  calh'd 
to  his  own 
hidy's  Had- 
Newfonnd- 
<i'd  for  the 
(1  drawiii}?- 
was  sittiiij; 
ird  joyfully 
luldenly  rc- 

dton,"  said 
out  enndty 

II  can  niakt: 
'0  how  that 
au.se  I  beat 

words,  and 
ipokcn,  that 
Mowliray's 
md  a  cru- 
i'l)iii<;  witli 
i('h  h<(  had 
pt  silcnco. 
unti'd,  and 

If  tho  Hall 
'C'S — white, 
sif^ht  }j;ave 
he  face  of 
at  moment 
ay,  for  the 
means  thiit 
•ray  might, 
li  when  he 
id  if  so,  he 
nee  of  this 
[t  was  not 
could  not 
bad  substi- 
|iy  of  Wig- 

really  en- 
['infi;  her  in 
Ifronunore 
Inself,  and 
rode  at  a 
|ues,  under 

and  over 
Ivas  a  fine 

fcenstomed 

Id  nothing 


better  than  to  rush  along  nt  headlong  speed. 
,Siu!  felt  exhilaration  and  enthusiasm  such 
as  she  luid  not  known  for  a  long  time.  As 
she  looked  at  Mowbray's  s]dendid  figure  she 
could  not  hel|i  regretting  that  a  man  with 
such  rare  ]>hysieal  advantages  should  have, 
after  all,  but  a  craven  spirit.  Was  it,  then, 
she  thouglit,  altogether  fear  that  jirevent- 
ed  him  from  assisting  her  to  escajie  ?  The 
idea  sc^enu'd  absurd.  Thcrt*  nnist  be  some 
reason  of  a  ditferent  kind.  She  felt  certain 
that  h(^  was  an  unprinci]i]ed  villain,  an*l  that 
lu''  had  some  designs  of  his  own  upon  her. 
AVhat  they  were  slie  could  not  imagine.  If 
he  wished  to  gain  her  hand,  he  had  certain- 
ly taken  a  singular  way  to  make  himself 
agreeable.  H(!  v.'as  cruel,  cynical,  mean,  and 
sordid,  and  took  no  pains  to  uonceal  this. 
He  ha<l  advised  htT  to  sul>mit  to  imiirismi- 
mcnt,  and  had  refused  to  help  her  in  any 
way.  What  his  designs  could  i)ossibly  be 
she  could  not  conjecture. 

During  the  ride  but  little  was  said.  Mow- 
bray was  not  talkative  at  any  time,  and  on 
the  jiresent  occasion  ho  conllned  himself  to 
remarks  which  In;  intended  to  be  amiable 
and  agreeable.  To  these  Edith  nuide  civil 
replies.  At  last  they  rode  back  to  the  Hall, 
and  Mowbray  prejiared  to  dismount. 

"  Are  you  going?"  said  Edith.  "For  my 
part  1  should  rather  not  disnniunt  just  yet.  It 
is  too  dull  in  the  hou.se.  I  would  rather  ride 
a  lilth^  distance  with  you,  and  walk  back." 

At  this  Mowliray  looked  at  her  in  silence, 
and  with  a  perplexed  expression  on  his  coun- 
tenan(H'. 

Edith  calmly  waited  for  him  to  start. 

"  Miss  DaltcHi,"  said  he  at  length,  "  I  real- 
ly do  not  know — "     And  then  he  jiaused. 

"  I  beg  your  jiardon,"  said  Edith. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mowbray,  "  I  don't  know 
about  your  riding  any  more." 

"  Why,  surely,"  said  Edith,  "  yon  are  not 
going  to  refuse  your  horso  for  a  few  minutes 
longer?" 

Mowbray  looked  gloomily  at  ht>r,  and  then 
started  otf.  Edith  rode  by  his  side,  and  they 
both  kept  silence  until  they  reached  the  park 
gate. 

The  porter  came  out,  bnt  on  seeing  Edith 
he  stopped. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Edith.  "You  see 
I  am  with  Captain  Mowbray." 

ftb)wbray  looked  deeply  per|)lexed.  and  as 
ho  said  nothing,  the  porter  began  to  open 
the  gate. 

"Stop,"  said  Mowbray. 

"What!"  cried  Edith.  "Captain  Mow- 
bray, what  do  yon  mean  ?" 

"You  nuist  iu)t  go  out,"  said  Mowbray. 
"I  thought  you  were  only  going  as  far  .as 
the  gate,  and  would  walk  back.  You  must 
not  try  to  follow  nie." 

"Must  not!"  cried  Edith,  whom  the  hope 
of  escape  had  roused  to  intense  excitement. 
"  Do  you  say  that  to  me  ?" 


"Yes,"  said  Mowbray. 

"What  right  have  you  T"  said  Edith, 
haughtily.  And  then  turning  to  the  ]iorter, 
sjie  said,  imperatively,  "Open  that  gate  at 
once." 

Hut  the  <didurate  jiorter  did  not  obey  her 
now  any  more  than  before. 

"Cajitain  Mowbray,"  said  she,  "order 
that  man  toojien  the  gate." 

"I  will  not,"  said  Mowbray,  rinhly. 

"Tlieu  1  shall  ride  by  your  side  till  you 
go  out." 

"  You  shall  not." 

"  Is  that  the  way  that  a  gentleman  speaks 
to  a  lady  ?" 

"  Y'Ui  won't  get  nui  into  trouble,  anyway." 

"1  don't  intend  to,"  said  Kditli,  scorn- 
fuUy.  "It  is  my  own  act.  You  will  not 
take  mo  out,  bnt  1  go  out  of  my  own  ac- 
cord." 

The  i)orter  meanwhile  stood  bewildered, 
with  the  gate  only  jiartly  open,  holding  it 
in  this  way,  and  waiting  for  the  end  of  tliis 
singular  scene. 

"Miss  Dalton,"  cried  Jlowbray,  fiercely, 
"you  will  luako  me  resort  to  extreme  mcas- 
nres." 

"  You  dare  not!"  cried  Edith,  who  by  this 
time  was  fearfully  excitt'd.  She  had  a  horse 
beneath  her  now.  That  horse  seemed  jiart 
of  herself.  In  that  hoi'se's  strength  and  speed 
she  lost  her  own  weakness,  and  so  she  was 
now  resolved  to  stake  every  thing  ou  one 
etl'ort  for  liberty. 

"Don't  force  me  to  it,"  said  Mowbray, 
"or  you  will  make  me  do  something  that  I 
shall  be  soiry  for." 

"  You  dare  not !"  cried  Edith  again.  "Do 
you  dare  to  threaten  me — me,  thi!  mistress 
ofDalt«m  Hall?" 

"Catch  hold  of  her  reins,  captain,"  cried 
th(^  pcn-ter,  "and  make  her  go  back." 

"  Hold  yoin-  bhiody  tongue!"  roared  Mow- 
bray.— "Miss  Dalton,  you  mtist  go  1)aek." 

"  Never!" said  Edith.  "  I  will  go  out  when 
you  do." 

"  Then  I  will  not  go  out  at  all.  I  will  go 
back  to  the  Hall." 

"Y(ui  shall  not  enter  it,"  said  Edith,  as 
firmly  as  though  she  jiossesscd  the  keys  of 
Dalton  Hall. 

"  Miss  Dalton,  you  forc'ii  me  to  use  vio- 
lence." 

"  Yon  dare  not  use  violence,"  said  Edith, 
with  a  look  that  overawed  the  craven  Boul 
of  Mowbray.  For  Edith  now  was  resolved 
to  do  any  thing,  howevj'rdesjierate,  and  even 
the  threat  of  violence,  though  sin;  felt  that 
he  was  cajiable  of  it,  did  not  deter  her.  The 
two  faced  one  anotlier  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  the  one  strong,  nniseular,  mascu- 
line, the  other  slight,  fragile,  delicate;  yet 
!  in  that  girlish  form  there  was  an  intrepid 
spirit  which  Mowbray  recognized,  tlefiant, 
haughty,  tameless,  the  spirit  of  all  her  fa- 
1  thers,  strengthened  and  intensified  by  a  ve- 


THE  LIVING  LINK 


I 


1:1 
'f  1 


I  \ 


"  IN    inCK    IKICNZY    KDITH    STUUCK    THAT    HAND    AGAIN    ANl>    AdAlN." 


I 


liomont  (It'sirc.  foi-  that  liberty  that  lay  oiit- 
Hidc  tlu'.  fi'atcs. 

"Well,"  Hiiid  the  porter,  "I'd  better  be 
a-.slinttiii'  tlie  jj;ates  till  yon  two  Hettlc  yer 
biisiiicHS.  Siie'll  (lash  through  if  1  don't.  1 
see  it  in  her  eye." 

"No,  who  won't,"  said  Mowl)ray.  "Don't 
Hhnt  the  jjates ;  wait  a  uioiiieut."  Then 
turnin<t  to  Kdith,  ht^  said, 

"Miss  Dalton,  Cor  (he  last  time,  I  say  go 
baek,  or  you'll  \h\  sorry.'' 

Editli  loolvcd  steadfastly  and  sternly  at  the 
ea|itain,  but  said  not  one  word,  'i'he  cap- 
tain looked  away. 

"  Porter,"  said  he. 

"  Sir  " 

"  Hold  her  horse." 

"  But  she'll  rush  through  the  gates.  Shall 
I  fasten  them  ?" 

"No;  I'll  hold  the  reins  till  yon  get  them. 
And,  porter,  I  leave;  this  horse  with  Miss  Dal- 
ton, sinee  sh<>  won't  dismount.  You  see  that 
he's  well  taken  eare  of." 

"  Yes,  Sir." 

Tho  cai)tain,  while  speaking,  had  reached 


ont  his  arm  to  take  Edith's  reins,  but  .slie 
turned  her  horse's  head,  and  he  missed  them. 
Tin;  porlei-  saw  tiiis  nu>ven\ent,  and  sprang 
forward.  Edith  imlled  the  reins.  Herhor.sc 
reared.  Wild  with  excitement,  and  seeing 
the  gates  open  before  her,  and  the  road  be- 
yontl,  Edith  stru(-'k  at  the-  jiorter  with  her 
whip  over  his  face,  and  then  drove  her 
horse  at  the  open  gates.  Tlie  horse  si)rang 
through  like  tlii^  wind.  The  jjorter  shrieked 
after  her.  She  was  on  the  road.  She  was 
free  ! 

No — not  free! 

Not  free,  for  after  her  there  came  the  thun- 
dering tramp  of  another  horse.  It  was  Mow- 
bray in  ])nrsnit. 

His  horse  was  far  better  than  hers.  He 
gained  on  her  stej)  by  ste]).  Nearer  and 
nearer  he  came.  He  was  lieliind  her;  h<^ 
was  al)reiist  of  lier  be'fore  she  had  ridden  a 
(jiiarter  of  a  mili;.  The  tower  of  the  village 
church  was  already  in  sight,  wlu!n  suddenly 
a  strong  hand  was  laid  on  lier  nuns. 

In  her  frenzy  Edith  struck  thiit  hand 
again  and  again  with  the  heavy  butt  of  her 


Tin:  LIVING  LINK. 


nil 


.,.;;,  ijiii!''*!  Ill' ' 


iiiH,  but  sli<> 
lissftl  tlit'iii. 
iiiid  sjiriin;; 
Her  lioisc 

1111(1    HCfiUfJ 

flic,  road  bi'- 
■r  with  licr 
drove  liiT 
|orse  sj)raiiK 
:er  Hlirii'kctl 
She  was 


lio  the  thnn- 
|t  was  Mow- 

hers.  Hi* 
Nearer  aiid 
lid  licr;  he 
kd  ridden  a 
jthe  village 
111  suddenly 
Ins. 

[that   hand 
llmtt  of  her 


ridin^-whiii,  but  it  did  not  loosen  itH  grasit. 
Ilcr  horse  stopped. 

"Cuiso  yon!"'  roared  Mowbray  to  Kdith, 
while  his  lace  was  livid  with  passion  and 
pain,  "I'll  kill  yon  I"  and  sei/.iiin  her  whip 
hand,  ho  wrenelii'd  the  whip  out  of  it. 

Kilith  was  silent. 

.Mowliray  said  no  more.  He  turned  her 
horse  and  led  it  baek.  Kdith  looked  around 
wildly.  .*>uddeiily,  as  they  eanie  near  the 
Uates,  the  intoleialde  th()ii};lit  of  her  renewed 
iin)M'isoiiiiieiit  maddened  her,  aiitl  the  lilieity 
which  she  had  so  nearly  gained  roused  her 
to  one  more  ell'iut  ;  and  so,  with  a  start,  she 
diseiij^aned  herself  and  leaped  to  the  around. 
Mowliray  saw  it,  and,  with  a  terrihle  oath,  in 
an  instant  lea|ied  down  ami  j;ave  ehase.  The 
horses  ran  forw.ard  and  entered  the  nates. 

Kdith  held  u]>  her  loii^  skirts  and  ran  to- 
ward the  villa;;e.  Ihit  anain  Mowbray  was 
too  (iiiieh  tor  her.  He  overtook  Inr.  and 
Mei/.iiiM^her  by  the  wrist,  dr.iji^ed  her  hack. 

Kdith  shrieked  for  help  at  the  lop  of  her 
voice.  Mowliray  lookeil  liereely  iironnd.  and 
secinir  no  one,  he  look  his  haiidkercliief  and 
lionnd  it  ti;;litly  around  her  mouth.  Tlieii, 
overcome  liy  des]iair,  Kditli's  strcni^tli  j;av(f 
way.  She  sank  down.  Shi*  made  no  more 
resislaiice.     8lie  fainted. 

Mowbray  raised  her  in  his  ar'ms,  and  car- 
ried her  into  the  porter's  lodyc;.  The  gates 
were  then  locked. 


CH.M'TKK  XVHL 

A    .sritAXCiK   CONI'KSSION. 

Kdith  canui  to  herself  in  the  porter's 
]o(lj;e.  Her  re-awakened  eyes,  in  lookin;^  up 
confusedly,  saw  the  hateful  face  of  Mowbray 
lieiidinj:;  over  her.  At  once  she  reali/i'd  f  he 
horror  of  her  posit  ion,  and  all  the  incidents 
fif  her  lato  adveutnn!  caino  vividly  before 
her  mind.  Stiirtiufj  up  as  (piickly  as  her 
fcehle  limbs  would  allow,  she  indignantly 
motioned  him  away. 

Mowbray,  without  a  word,  stepped  back 
and  looked  down. 

Kdith  staggen-d  to  her  foct. 

"Miss  Dalton,"  said  Mowliray,  in  a  low- 
voice,  "  your  carriage  has  been  sent  for.  It 
is  hero,  and  will  take  you  to  the  Mall." 

Kdith  made  no  reply,  but  looked  absently 
toward  the  door. 

'"Miss  Dalton,"  said  Mowbray,  coining  a 
little  nearer,  "1  im|iloro  you  to  hear  me.  1 
would  kneel  at  your  fcn-t  if  yon  would  let 
me.  Ibit  you  are  so  imbittered  against  me 
now  that  it  would  he  useless.  Miss  Dalton, 
it  was  not  hate  that  made  me  raise  my  hand 
against  you.  Miss  Dalton,  I  swear  that  you 
are  more  dear  to  nw  than  life  itself.  A  few 
momi^its  ago  I  was  mad,  ami  did  not  know 
what  1  was  doing.  I  did  not  want  you  to 
go  away  from  this  place,  for  I  saw  that  you 


would  be  Inst  to  me  forovor.  I  saw  that  you 
haled  me,  and  that  if  you  went  away  just 
then  I  should  lose  you.  And  I  was  almost 
out  of  my  senses.  Iliad  no  time  *o  think  of 
any  thing  but  the  bitter  loss  that  was  be- 
fore me,  and  as  you  lied  I  sei/i-d  you  not  in 
:inger,  but  in  exiilemeiit  and  tear,  jus;  as  I 
would  have  seized  you  if  you  had  been 
drowning.'' 

"Captain  Mowbray,"  said  Kdith,  sternly, 
"  the  violence  ym  have  olfcied  me  is  enoni;h 
to  satisfy  even  you,  without  such  insult  as 
this." 

"  Will  yon  not  even  listen  to  me  V 

"  liisteii !"  exclaimed  Kdith,  in  an  inde- 
scriliable  tone. 

"Then  I  must  be  heard.  I  lovo  von, 
1— " 

"liovi'!"'  interrupted  I'.dilh,  in  a  tone  of 
unutterable  contempt. 

"  Yes,  love,"  repeated  Mow  lifay.  Vehe- 
mently, "from  the  tiist  time  that  1  saw  you, 
when  yon  iin|ilored  my  help." 

"And  why  did  you  not  give  me  ymir 
help?"  asked  l'',ditli,  looking  at  him  in  (aild 
and  hani;lity  indigiiaiion. 

"I  will  tell  you,"  said  Mowbray.  "He- 
fore  I  saw  you  I  knew  luiw  yon  were'  situ- 
ated. Wiggins  Wdiild  have  kept  me  away, 
but  dared  not.  I  know  that  about  him 
which  makes  me  his  master.  Wln^ii  I  saw 
you,  I  loved  you  with  all  my  soul.  Wiieii 
yon  appealed  to  me,  I  would  have  responded 
at  once,  but  could  not.  The  fact  is,  Mrs. 
Mowbray  was  present.  Mrs.  Mowbr.iy  is 
not  what  she  ajipears  to  be.  Hefore  her  I 
had  to  pretend  an  indilfereiice  that  I  did  not 
fi'cl.  In  short,  1  had  to  make  myself  appear 
a  base  coward.  In  fa<'t,  1  had  to  be  on  my 
guard,  so  as  not  to  excite  her  siisiiieions  of 
my  feelings.  Afterward,  when  I  might  have 
redeemed  my  character  in  your  eyes,  I  did 
not  know  how  to  begin.  Then,  too,  I  was 
afi'iiid  (o  help  you  to  eseai)(%  for  I  saw  that 
you  hated  me,  jind  my  only  lio]ie  \tos  to  keeji 
you  here  till  you  might  know  me  better." 

"t'aiitaiii  Mowbray,"  said  Kdith,  "  if  you 
are  a  captain,  which  I  doiilit,  such  explana- 
tions as  these  arc  paltry.  After  what  y<in 
have  done,  the  only  thing  lett  is  silcm'c." 

"Oh,  Miss  Dalton,  will  nothing  lead  you 
to  listen  to  me?  I  would  lay  down  my  life 
to  serve  you." 

"  You  still  wish  to  serve  me,  then  ?"  asked 
Kdith. 

".Most  fervently,''  cried  Mowbray. 

"Then  (111(11  that  gate,"  said  Kdith. 

^Mowbray  liesitate(l. 

"Open  that  gate," said  Kdith,  "and  jirove 
your  sincerity.  Open  it,  and  etfac(^  these 
marks,"  sIk!  cried,  as  she  indignantly  held 
up  her  right  hand,  and  show(!d  her  wrist,  all 
black  from  the  tierce  grasp  in  which  Mow- 
bray had  seized  it.  "  Open  it,  and  I  promise 
you  I  will  listen  patiently  to  all  that  you 
may  have  to  say." 


C4 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


it 

1  > 


f'  • 


"  Miss  Dalt.on,"  said  Mowbray,  "  if  I  opon- 
ed  that  gat»)  I  should  never  see  you  again." 

"  You  will  never  see  me  again  if  you  do 
not." 

"  At  least  I  shall  be  near  you." 

"  Near  nie  1  Yes,  and  hated  and  despised. 
I  will  eall  on  Wiggins  hinuself  to  help  me. 
He  was  right ;  he  said  the  time  would  eome 
when  I  would  be  willing  to  trust  him." 

"Trust  him?  What,  that  man  f  You 
don't  know  what  he  is." 

"  And  what  are  you.  Captain  Mowbray  f" 

"  I !     I  am  a  gentleman." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Edith, (piietly,  "not  that— 
any  thing  rather  than  that." 

At  this  MowI»ray\i  faee  Hushed  erimson, 
but  with  a  violent  eft'ort  he  repressed  his 
passion. 

"  Miss  Dalton,"  .said  he,  "  it  is  a  thing 
that  you  might  understand.  The  fear  of 
losing  you  made  me  desperate.  I  saw  in 
your  flight  the  loss  of  all  my  hopes." 

"  And  where  are  those  hoiies  now  ?" 

"Weil,  at  any  rate,  I  have  not  altogether 
lost  you.  Let  me  hope  that  I  may  have  an 
opportunity  to  explain  her'.;;.'ter,  and  to  re- 
trieve my  charaet(a\  M;ss  Dalton,  a  woman 
will  sometimes  forgive  oti'enses  even  against 
herself,  when  she  knows  that  they  are 
prompted  by  love." 

"\ou  seem  to  me,"  said  Edith,  "to  seek 
the  aifeetions  of  women  as  you  do  those  of 
dogs  —  by  beating  them  soundly."  The 
.sight  of  Mow)»ray's  dog,  who  was  in  the 
room,  reminded  Edith  of  the  master's  maxim 
which  he  had  uttered  before  this  memorable 
rid(!. 

"  Miss  Dalton,  you  do  me  sueh  wrong  that 
you  crush  mo.  Can  you  not  have  some 
mercy  ?" 

"Open  the  gate,"  said  Edith.  "Do  that 
one  thing,  and  then  you  may  make  all  the 
explanations  that  you  wish.  I  will  listen 
to  any  thing  and  every  thing.  Open  the 
gate,  and  I  will  promise  to  forgive,  and  oven 
to  forget,  the  unparalleled  outrage  that  I 
have  suffered." 

"  But  you  will  leave  me  forever." 

"  Open  that  gate,  Captain  Mowbray. 
Prove  .yourself  to  be  what  you  say  —  (lo 
Hometl'.ing  to  atone  for  your  base  conduct— 
and  then  you  will  have  claims  on  my  grati- 
tude which  I  shall  always  acknowledge." 

Mowbray  shook  his  head. 

"  Can  I  let  you  go  V  he  said.  "  Do  you 
ask  it  of  me  f ' 

"No,"  said  Edith,  impatiently,  "I  don't 
ask  it.  I  neither  hope  nor  ask  for  any  thing 
from  you.  Wiggins  himself  is  more  prom- 
ising. At  any  rate,  he  has  not  as  yet  used 
absolute  violence,  and,  what  is  better,  he 
does  not  intrude  his  society  where  it  is  not 
wanted." 

"Then  I  have  no  hope,"  said  JTowbray,  in 
what  was  intended  to  be  a  i)laintive  tone. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Edith ;  "  but 


I  know  this — that  the  time  will  surely  come, 
after  all,  when  I  shall  get  mv  freedom,  and 
then.  Captain  Mowbray,  you  wiii  rue  the 
day  when  you  dared  to  lay  hands  on  me. 
Yes,  I  could  get  my  freedom  now,  I  suppose, 
if  I  were  to  parley  with  Wiggins,  to  biibo 
him  heavily  enough;  and  I  assuri;  you  1  am 
j  tempted  now  to  give  up  the  half  of  my  es- 
tate, so  as  to  get  free  and  have  you  punished." 

Mowbray  turned  pale. 

"  There  were  no  witnesses,"  said  he,  hast- 
ily. 

"You  forget  that  the  porter  saw  it  all. 
But  this  is  useless,"  she  added  ;  and  jjassing 
by  Mowbray,  she  went  to  the  door.  Outside 
was  a  carnage,  which  the  porter  had  brought 
down  from  the  Hall,  into  which  she  got,  and 
then  drove  away,  while  Mowbray  stood 
looking  at  her  till  she  drove  out  of  sight. 

The  eft'ects  of  this  adventure  were  felt  for 
some  time.     Excitement,  fatigue,  pain,  and 
grief,  all  aflfeetcd  Edith,  so  that  she  could 
not  leave  her  room  for  weeks.    Mrs.  Dnnl)ar 
was  assiduous  in  her  attentions,  and  Edith 
j  supposed  that  both  she  and  Wiggins  knew 
all  about  it,  as  the  porter  would  undoubtedly 
'have  informed  them;  but  her  communica- 
tions with  her  were  limited  only  to  a  t'cw 
j  words,  and  she  regarded  her  with  nothing 
but  distrust.    In  Mrs.  Dunbar's  manner,  also, 
she  saw  something  which  indicated  a  fresh 
I  trouble,  something  which  had  been  manifest- 
1  ed  by  her  ever  since  Mowbray's  tir.-st  ajiijear- 
'  ance,  and  which  Edith  now  suspected  to  bo 
the  result  of  Mowbray's  violence.     This  led 
I  to  vain  speculations  on  her  part  as  to  the 
'  mysterious  connection  that  existed  between 
her  jailers.     Mowbray  i)rofesscd  to  be  tlio 
enemy  and  the  master  of  Wiggins.     Her  re- 
membrance of  Wiggii!s's  look  of  hate  nuide 
her  think  that  this  was  true.    But  Mrs.  Dim- 
bar  she  did  not  belitjve  to  be  an  enemy  of 
Mowbray's;    and  the  porter,  who  was  the 
incorruptible  servant   of  Wiggins,  seemed 
equally  devoted  to  Mowbray. 

iSlie  recalled  also  Mowbray's  words  to  her- 
self in  <!X|ilanation  of  his  own  course.  Ho 
had  asserted  that  he  had  the  power  over 
Wiggins  from  sonu,  knowledge  Avhich  ho 
jmssessed,  and  also  that  Mrs.  Mowbray  Avas 
not  what  sht;  appeared  to  be.  He  had  si)oken 
as  though  he  was  afraid  of  Mrs.  Mowbray's 
finding  out  what  he  called  his  love  for  Etlith. 
Was  sIh!  his  mother,  then,  at  all  f  What  <lid 
it  all  mean  ?  For  Edith,  at  any  rate,  it  was 
j  not  po.ssible  to  tinderstand  it,  and  the  char- 
acter, motives,  and  mutual  rtslationship  of 
all  those  with  whom  she  had  come  in  con- 
tact remained  an  impenetrable  mystery. 

To  the  surprise  of  Edith,  the  Mowbrays 
called  s(!veral  times  to  make  ini|uiries  about 
her,  and  after  her  recovery  they  still  visited 
her.  At  first  she  refused  to  see  them,  but 
one  day  Mrs.  Mowbray  came*  alone,  and  Edith 
determined  to  see  lier,  and  get  rid  of  her  ef- 
fectually. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


65 


lier- 
Ho 

over 
I  Im 
•\viis 

lokt'U 
rav's 

Mitli. 

tdid 

was 

liar- 

l>  of 
coii- 


Mrs.  Mowbray  rose  as  she  ciitfietl,  and 
advaueiug  to  j^n  :it  licr,  held  out  her  hand 
with  a  cordial  smile.  Edith  did  not  take  it, 
yet  Mrs.  Mowbray  ♦;ook  no  otVentsc,  but,  on 
tlie  contrary,  net  her  iu  the  most  eft'usive 
manner. 

••Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Dalton,"  said  she, 
"  wliat  an  aj^e  it  lias  been  since  we  mi^t ! 
It  seems  like  years!  And  when  I  wanted  to 
see  you  BO  par-tic-n-lar-ly  I  And  are  yon 
(luite  well  ?  Have  you  quite  recovered  f  Are 
you  sure?     How  Rlad  I  am  !" 

"Mrs.  Mowbray,"  said  Edith,  as  soon  as 
she  could  make  herself  heard,  "  I  have  sent 
word  to  you  several  times  that  I  do  not  wisli 
to  see  you  a<;ain.  You  know  the  reason 
why  as  well  as  I  do.  I  can  only  say  that  I 
am  surprised  at  this  jiersisteuce,  and  shall 
in  future  be  under  the  necessity  of  shutting 
my  doors  against  you." 

Thus  Edith,  in  spite  of  her  severe  afflic- 
tions, could  still  speak  of  the  place  as  hers, 
and  under  her  orders. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Miss  Dalton,"  burst  fortli 
Mrs.  Mowbray,  "  tint  is  the  very  reason  wliy 
I  have  so  in-sist-ed  on  seeing  you.  To  ex- 
l)lc'in,  you  know — for  there  is  nothing  like 
an  e:cpl.iuation." 

"  You  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble," 
said  Edith.  "  I  do  not  want  any  more  ex- 
planations." 

"Oh,  but  you  jtositively  nmst,  you  know," 
said  Mrs.  Mowbray,  in  her  most  airy  man- 
ner. 

"Pardon  me.  I  wish  to  hear  nothing'; 
whatever  about  it." 

"  It's  that  sad,  sad  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray, coolly  ignoring  Edith's  words,  "and 
deeiily  has  he  rei)ented.  IJiit  do  you  know, 
<leiir,  it  was  only  his  fondness  for  you.  I'os- 
i-tive-ly  nothing  else,  dear,  )iut  his  fondness 
for  you.  Oh,  how  he  has  talked  about  it! 
He  says  ho  is  willing  to  give  up  his  right 
eye,  or  hand — I  really  forget  which — to  re- 
call the  ])ast.  My  poor  dear  boy  is  very  im- 
petuous." 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray,  I  do  not  wish  to  bo  un- 
kind or  rude,  but  you  really  foice  nie  to  it." 

"He's  impetuous,"  said  Mrs.  Mowbray, 
without  noticing  Edith,  "but  lie's  warm- 
hearted. He's  a  most  atfectionato  son,  and 
lii^  is  so  aftectionate  toward  you.  It's  all 
his  foiidness  for  you."' 

"Mrs.  Alowbray,  this  is  intolerable." 

"Oh,  Aliss  DaltoTi,  you  don't  know — you 
really  don't  know.  He  has  loved  you  ever 
since  ho  first  saw  you — and  so  true !  Why, 
li<^  dotes  on  you.  He  was  afraiil  that  he 
would  lose  you.  You  know,  that  was  the 
reason  why  lie  iiit<'rfered.  But  he  says  now 
most  distinctly  that  he  thinks  his  interfi'r- 
enco  was  (iiiite  nn-war-rant-a-ble — quite,  I 
assure  you,  my  dear  Miss  Dalton." 

Editii  sat  looking  at  this  insolent  woman 
with  a  clouded  brow,  not  knowing  whether 
to  order  her  out  of  the  house  or  not.     Hut 


Mrs,  Mowbray  seemed  beautifully  uncon- 
scious of  any  offense. 

"The  only  thing  that  he  has  been  talking 
about  ever  since  it  hajipened,"  she  continued, 
"  is  his  sorrow.  Oh,  his  sorrow!  And  it  is 
deep.  Miss  Dalton.  I  never  saw  such  deep 
sorrow.  He  really  swears  about  it  in  a 
shocking  manner ;  and  that  with  him  is  a 
sign  that  his  feelings  are  concerned  very 
strongly.  He;  always  swears  whenever  he 
is  deeply  moved." 

Edith  at  this  started  to  her  feet  with  a 
look  ill  her  eyes  which  showed  Mrs.  Mow- 
bray that  she  would  not  be  trided  with  any 
longer. 

"  Mrs.  Mowbray,"  said  she,  "  I  came  down 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  telling  you  th.at  in 
future  I  shall  dispense  with  tlie  pleasure  of 
your  calls." 

Jlrs.  Mowbray  rose  from  her  chair. 

"What!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  gesture 
of  consternation  ;  "and  live  iu  complete  so- 
dusioii  ?  Not  riHieive  calls?  No,  no;  you 
really  must  not  think  of  such  a  thing.  W<' 
ar(!  your  friends,  you  know,  and  you  must 
not  deny  us  an  occasional  sight  of  you.  My 
poor  boy  will  jiositively  die  if  ho  doesn't  see 
V(m.  He's  pining  now.  And  it's  all  for  you. 
All." 

"Mrs.  Mowbray,"  said  Edith,  iu  a  severe 
tone,  "I  do  not  know  whether  you  give  of- 
fiMise  intentionally  or  not.  You  seem  unable 
to  take  a  hint,  however  strongly  expressed, 
and  you  force  me  to  speak  plainly,  although 
I  dislike  to  do  so.  You  must  not,  and  you 
shall  not,  come  here  any  more." 

"  Oh,  my  (h'ar  Miss  Dalton,  you  rciilly  arc 
ipiitc!  excited,"  said  Sirs.  Mowbray,  with  i! 
lileasant  smile. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  said  Edith,  coldly. 
"  You  are  not  to  coiiit!  here  again." 

Mrs.  Mowbray  laughed  lightly. 

"  Oh,  yon  really  can't  keep  ns  away.  We 
positively  must  come.  My  son  insists. 
These  lovers,  you  know,  dear,  are  no  jier- 
tiiiai'ious.  W(.'ll,"  she  iidded,  looking  hastily 
at  l](litli,  "I  suppose  I  must  say  good-morn- 
ing; but.  Miss  Dalton,  think  of  my  boy. 
Gooil-nioriiing.  my  dear  Miss  Dalton." 

And  so  ^Irs.  Mowbray  ri'tired. 

She  called  again  four  times,  twice  .nlone, 
and  twice  in  company  with  tins  captain, 
but  Editli  refused  to  see  her. 

Yet,  after  all,  in  spite  of  her  scorn  for 
these  ])eoi)le,  and  lu'r  conviction  that  they 
were  in  Iciigue  with  Wiggins — in  s)iit(\  of 
the  eaiitain's  l)rutality— -it  was  not  without 
sorrow  that  Edith  dismissed  Mrs.  Mowbray; 
for  she  looked  upon  her  as  a  kind  of  tie  that 
bound  her  to  the  outer  world,  and  until  the 
last  she  had  ho[)ed  that  some  means  might 
arise  through  these,  if  not  of  escape,  at  least 
of  communication  with  friends. 

IJtit  she  was  cut  olV  from  these  now  more 
than  ever;  and  what  rcmainedf 

What?     A  prison-house! 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


if 


[  ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A   NEW-COMER. 

It  seemed  now  to  Edith  that  her  isolation 
was  complete.  She  fotind  herself  in  a  posi- 
tion which  she  had  thought  impossible  in 
fn  e  England — a  prisoner  in  tlie  hands  o^^'ui 
adventurer,  who  usurped  an  authority  over 
her  to  whicli  he  had  no  right.  His  claim 
to  exercise  this  authority  in  his  oilico  of 
guardian  she  did  not  admit  for  a  moment. 
She,  the  mistress  of  Dalton  Hall,  was  noth- 
ing more  than  a  captive  on  her  own  estates. 

She  did  not  know  liow  this  could  end  or 
when  it  could  end.  Her  hopes  had  one  by 
one  given  way.  The  greatest  blow  of  all  was 
that  whicli  had  been  administered  througli 
the  so-called  letter  of  Miss  Plymptou.  That 
letter  she  believed  to  bo  a  forgery,  yet  the 
undeniable  fact  remained  that  Miss  Plymp- 
ton  had  done  nothing.  That  Miss  Plympton 
should  write  that  letter,  however,  and  that 
she  should  leave  her  helpless  at  the  mercy 
of  Wiggins,  seemed  ecpially  improbable,  and 
Edith,  in  her  vain  effort  to  comprehend  it, 
could  only  conclude  that  some  accident  had 
happened  to  her  dear  friend ;  that  she  was 
ill,  or  worse.  And  if  this  was  so,  it  would 
be  to  her  the  worst  blow  of  all. 

Other  hopes  which  she  had  formed  had 
also  been  doomed  to  destruction.  She  had 
expected  something  from  tlie  spontaneous 
sympathy  of  the  outside  world,  who,  what- 
ever their  opinion  .about  her  father,  would 
stir  themselves  to  prevent  such  an  outrage 
upon  justice  as  that  which  Wiggins  was 
perpetrating.  Hut  tliese  hopes  gradually 
died  out.  That  world,  she  thought,  was 
perhaps  ignorant  not  only  of  her  situation, 
but  even  of  her  very  existence.  The  last 
hopes  that  she  had  formed  had  been  in  the 
Mowbrays,  and  these  had  gone  the  way  of 
all  the  others. 

Nothing  appeared  before  her  in  the  way 
of  hope,  and  her  despondency  was  often  hard 
to  endure.  Still  her  strong  spirit  and  higli- 
toncd  nature  rendered  it  imixissibb'  for  her 
to  be  miserable  always.  Added  to  this  was 
her  perfect  health,  which,  witli  o  le  inter- 
ruption, had  sustained  her  amidst  *ho  dis- 
tresses of  her  situation.  IJy  her  very  dis- 
position she  was  forced  to  hope  for  the  best. 
It  must  not  be  sujiposed  that  she  was  .it  all 
like  "Mariana  in  the  moated  grange."  She 
did  not  pine  away.  On  tlui  contrary,  slie 
often  felt  a  kind  of  triinnph  in  tlie  tlii>uglit 
that  she  had  thus  far  shown  the  spirit  of  a 
Dalton. 

There  was  an  old  legend  in  the  Dalton 
family  upon  which  great  stress  had  been 
laid  for  many  generations,  and  tliis  one  stood 
out  prominently  among  all  flie  stories  of  an- 
cestral exploits  which  she  Iiad  heard  in  her 
cliildliood.  One  of  tlie  tirst  Daltons,  whose 
grim  figure  looked  down  ujion  lier  now  in 
the  armor  of  a  Crusader,  had  taken  part  in 


the  great  expedition  under  Richard  Cccnr 
do  Lion.  It  happened  that  he  had  the  ill 
luck  to  fall  into  tlio  hands  of  the  infid(?l,  lint 
as  there  were  a  number  of  other  prisoners, 
there  was  some  confusion,  and  eaily  onii 
morning  he  managed  to  seize  a  horse  and 
escape.  Soon  he  was  pursued.  He  dashed 
over  a  wide  plain  toward  some  hills  that 
arose  in  the  distance,  where  he  managed  to 
elude  his  pursuers  for  a  time,  until  he  found 
refuge  upon  a  cliff,  where  there  was  a  small 
place  which  aftbrded  room  for  one  or  two. 
After  some  search  his  pursuers  discovered 
him,  and  ordered  him  to  come  down.  He 
refused.  They  then  began  an  attack,  shoot- 
ing arrows  from  a  distance,  and  trying  to 
scale  the  clifl".  But  Dalton's  defense  was  so 
vigorous  that  by  the  end  of  that  day's  fight 
he  had  killed  eight  of  his  assailants.  Tlien 
the  contest  continued.  For  two  days,  under 
a  burning  sun,  without  food  or  drink,  the 
stern  old  Crusader  defended  himself.  When 
summoned  to  surrender  he  had  only  one 
word,  and  that  was,  " Never!"  It  haitpcned 
that  a  band  of  Crusaders  who  w(!re  scouring 
the  country  caught  sight  of  the  Saracens, 
and  made  an  attack  upon  them,  putting 
them  to  flight.  They  then  sought  for  the  ob- 
ject of  this  extraordinary  siege,  and,  climb- 
ing up,  they  saw  a  sight  which  thrilled  them 
as  they  gazed.  For  there  lay  stout  old  Mi- 
chael Dalton,  with  many  wounds,  holding  a 
broken  sword,  and  looking  at  them  with  de- 
lirious eyes.  He  recognized  no  one,  but  tried 
to  defend  hiniscdf  against  his  own  friemls. 
It  was  witli  difficulty  that  they  restrained 
him.  They  could  not  remove  him,  nor  was 
it  necessars',  for  death  was  near;  but  till  the 
last  his  hand  clutched  tlie  broken  sword, 
and  the  only  word  he  said  was,  "Never!"' 
Tlie  Crusaders  waited  till  he  was  dead,  and 
then  took  his  remains  to  the  camp.  The 
story  of  his  defense,  which  was  gathered 
from  their  jjrisoners,  rang  through  the  whoUi 
camp,  and  always  afterward  tlie  crest  of  the 
Daltons  was  a  bloody  hand  holding  a  broken 
sword,  witli  the  motto,  "  Never!" 

And  so  Edith  took  to  her  heart  this  story 
and  tliis  motto,  and  whenever  slie  looked  at 
the  grim  old  Crusader,  sIk*  clinched  iter  own 
little  hand  and  said,  "  Never!" 

She  determinetl  to  use  what  liberty  she 
had;  and  since  Wiggins  watched  all  her 
niovenu^nts,  to  show  him  liow  unconcerned 
she  was,  she  began  to  go  about  the  giounds. 
to  take  long  walks  in  all  ilirections,  and 
wlienever  she  returned  to  tiie  lioiise,  to  i>lay 
for  hours  upon  tlie  \>iano.  Her  determina- 
tion to  keep  up  her  courage  had  the  elfecl 
of  keeping  down  lier  desjuindency,  and  \wt 
vigorous  exercise  was  an  unmixed  benefit, 
so  that  there  was  a  radiant  l)eanty  in  lier 
face,  and  a  hauglity  dignity  that  made  her 
look  like  tlie  absolute  mistress  of  tlie  place. 

What  Wiggins  felt  or  thought  she  did 
not  know.     He  never  came  across  her  path 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


ird  Cocur 
1(1  the  ill 
ili(l((l.  but 
[)risoiiers, 
•av\y  ou(! 
lorsc  and 
le  dashed 
hillH  that, 
^iiaged  to 
I  he  found 
IB  a  .small 
10  or  two. 
liscovered 
own.     Ho 
ick,  shoot- 
trying  to 
use  was  so 
lay's  tight 
its.     Then 
ays,  under 
drink,  the 
3lf.    When 
only  one 
;  haiipened 
•e  .scouring 
I  Saracens, 
n,  putting 
for  the  ob- 
md,  climb- 
rilled  them 
)ut  old  Mi- 
,  holding  a 
ni  with  dc- 
e,  i)nt  tried 
vn  friends, 
restrained 
in,  nor  was 
but  till  the 
ieu  sword. 
,  "Never!" 
;  dead,  and 
imp.      The 
gathereil 
the  whole 
irest  of  the 
g  a  broken 

this  story 
looked  at 
d  Jier  own 

iberty  slie 
;d  ail  her 
U'oncerned 
grounds, 
■tions,  and 
ise,  to  play 
l('t<'rniina- 

tlio  (>lVecl 
y, and  her 
•d  benetit, 
uty  in  her 

nnule  her 
the  place, 
it  she  did 
s  her  path 


by  any  chance.  Occasional  glimpses  of  tho 
ever-watcliful  Hugo  showed  her  that  she 
was  tracked  with  as  jealous  a  vigihinco  as 
ever.  She  hoped,  however,  that  by  lier  in- 
ce.ssant  activity  something  might  result  to 
her  advantage. 

One  day  while  she  was  strolling  down  the 
grand  avenue  she  saw  a  stranger  walking 
up,  and  saw,  to  her  suri)rise,  tliat  lie  was  a 
gentleman.  Tho  face  was  altogether  un- 
known to  lipr,  and,  full  of  hope,  she  waited 
for  him  to  come  up. 

"  Have  I  tlio  honor  of  addressing  Miss 
Dalton?"  said  the  stranger,  as  lie  reached 
her.  He  .spoke  in  a  very  jilea.sant  but  some- 
what etl'eminato  voice,  lifting  his  hat,  and 
bowing  with  profound  courtesy. 

"I  am  Miss  Dalton,"  said  Edith,  wonder- 
ing who  the  stranger  might  be. 

He  was  (luite  a  small,  slight  man,  evident- 
ly young;  Ids  cheeks  were  bciirdless;  ho  had 
a  thick  dark  mustaclu!;  and  his  small  hands 
and  feet  gavi;  to  Edith  tlu!  idea  of  a  delicate, 
fa.stidions  sort  of  a  man,  which  was  height- 
ened by  liis  very  neat  and  careful  dress.  On 
the  whole,  however,  lie  seemed  to  be  a  gen- 
tleman, ami  his  deej)  courtesy  was  grateful 
in  tho  extreme  to  out*  who  had  known  so 
much  rudeness  from  others. 

His  comjtlexioii  was  (jiiite  dark,  his  eyes 
were  very  brilliant  and  exjjressive,  and  his 
ai)pearance  was  flecidedly  etfeniinate.  Edith 
felt  a  half  contempt  for  him,  but  in  a  mo- 
ment she  retlected  how  appeiirances  may 
mislead,  for  was  not  the  magiiiticent  Mow- 
bray a  villain  and  a  cowanl  t 

•'Allow  me.  Miss  Dalton,"  said  he,  "  to  in- 
troduce my.self.  I  am  Lieutenant  Ditdleigh, 
of ." 

"  Dudleigh!"  cried  Edith,  in  great  excite- 
ment.   "  Are  yon  any  relation  to  Sir  Lionel  ?" 

"  Well,  not  very  close.  I  belong  to  tlie, 
same  family,  it  is  true;  but  Sir  Lioiud  is 
more  to  nn*  than  a  relation.  Ho  is  my  best 
friend  and  benefactor." 

'■  And  do  you  know  any  thing  about  him  V 
cried  Edith,  in  irrei)ressible  eagerness.  "  Can 
you  tell  ni(!  a7iy  thing?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  DiidliMgh,  witli  n  smile. 
"I  certainly  ought  to  be  able  to  do  tiiat.  I 
sujiposo  I  know  as  much  alioiit  him  as  any 
Olio.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this 
that  I  liiid  here,"  he  continued,  suddenly 
changing  the  conversation — "that  rufliaii 
of  a  jiorter — the  gates  boarded  uj)  and  barred 
NO  jealously  ?  It  seems  to  nie  as  if  your  fiieiids 
should  bring  ]ii8tols  whenever  they  come  to 
lu.'ike  a  <!all." 

Dudleigh  had  a  gay,  open,  careless  tone. 
Ills  voice  was  round  and  full,  yet  still  it  was 
elVeininate.  In  spites  of  this,  however,  Edith 
was,  on  the  whole,  pleased  with  him.  The 
remote  relationship  which  he  ]>rofessed  to 
bear  to  Sir  Lionel,  Ids  claim  that  Sir  Lionel 
was  his  friend,  and  the  name  tliat  he  gave 
himself,  all  made  him  seem  to  Edith  like  u 


true  friend.  Of  Sir  Lionel  and  his  family 
she  knew  nothing  whattiver;  she  knew  not 
whether  he  had  ever  had  any  children  or 
not;  nor  did  she  ever  know  his  disposition; 
but  she  had  always  accustomed  herself  to 
think  of  him  as  her  (uily  relative,  and  her 
last  r(;8ort,  so  that  this  man's  acipiaiiitanc<; 
with  him  made  him  doubly  welcoimn 

"What  you  meniion,"  said  she,  in  answer 
to  his  last  remark,  "  is  a  thing  over  which 
I  hav(!  not  the  smallest  control.  There  is  a 
man  here  who  has  contrived  to  place  me  in 
so  ])ainful  a  position  that  I  am  a  prisoner  in 
my  own  grounds." 

"A  prisoiitir!"  said  Dudleigh,  in  a  tone  of 
the  deepest  surprise.  "  1  do  not  understand 
you." 

"  He  keeps  the  gates  locked,"  said  Edith, 
"  refuses  to  let  mo  out,  and  watches  every 
thing  that  I  do." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  really  can  not 
nnderstand  you.  No  one  has  any  right  to 
do  that.  How  does  he  dare  to  do  it?  He 
couldn't  treat  you  worse  if  ho  were  your  hus- 
band." 

"  Well,  ho  protends  that  ho  is  my  guard- 
ian, and  declares  that  he  has  the  same  right 
over  me  as  if  he  were  my  father." 

"But,  Miss  Dalton,  what  nonsense  this  is! 
You  can  not  be  in  earnest — and  yet  you 
must  be." 

"In  earnest!"  repeated  Edith,  with  vehe- 
mence. "Oh,  Lieutenant  Dudleigh,  this  is 
the  sorrow  of  my  lite — so  niuch  so  tliat  I 
throw  myself  upon  tlu!  .syin])at!iy  of  a  per- 
fect stranger.  I  am  desjierate,  and  ready  to 
do  any  thing  to  escajic! — " 

"Miss  Dalton,"  said  Dudleigh,  solemnly, 
"your  wrongs  must  l)e,  great  indeed  if  this 
is  so.  Your  guardian!  But  what  then? 
Does  that  give  him  the  right  to  bo  your 
jailer?" 

"  He  takes  the  right." 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

"  His  name  is  Wiggins." 

"  Wiggins  f  Wiggins  ?  Why,  it  must  be 
the  steward.  Wiggins?  Why,  I  saw  him 
yesterday.  Wiggins?  What!  That,scoun- 
(Irel?  that  blackleg?  that  villain  who  wiis 
horsewhipped  at  l'',psom  ?  A\hy,  the  man  is 
almost  an  outlaw.  It  seemed  to  me  incredi- 
ble when  I  heard  he  was  steward  here  ;  but 
when  you  tell  ni(^  that  Ik^  is  your  guardian  it 
really  is  too  much.  It  must  i)e  some  scoun- 
drelly trick  of  his — some  forgeiy  of  docu- 
ments." 

"So  I  believe,"  said  Edith,  "and  so  I  tcdd 
him  to  his  own  face.  But  how  did  you  get 
in  hero?  Wiggins  never  allows  any  ono  to 
come  here  but  his  own  friends." 

"Well,"  said  Duilleigh,  "  I  did  have  a  lit- 
tle dilliculty,  but  not  niuch^it  was  rather 
of  a  jirelimiiiary  character.  The  fact  is,  1 
came  here  more  tli;iii  a  week  ago  on  a  kind 
of  tour,  I  heard  of  Dalton  Hall,  and  under- 
stood enough  of  Sir  Lionel's  ulfairs  to  know 


08 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


that  you  wore  his  niooc;  and  as  thore  had 
beeu  an  old  dilTiculty,  I  tliouf^ht  I  cduldn't  do 
better  than  call  and  Koe  what  sort  of  a  per- 
son you  wen;,  so  as  to  jnd^e  wlictlHa-  a  rec- 
onciliation niiKht  not  be  l)roufrht  about.     I 
came  here  three  days  afjo,  and  that  beggar  j 
of  a  porler  woiildn't  let  me  in.     Vlie  next ' 
day  I  earner  back,  and  found  Wiggins,  and 
had  some  talk  with  him.    lie  said  something 
or  other  about  your  grief  and  seclusion  and 
so  forth  ;  but  I  knew  the  scoundrel  was  ly- 
ing, so  I  just  Hai<l  to  him,  'See  hero  now, 
Wiggins,  I  know  you  of  old,  and  there  is 
one   litth;  affair  of  yoiu's  that  I  know  all ' 
about — you  luiderstand  what  I  mean.     You 
thiidc  you  are  all  saf(!  here ;  but  there  are 
some  pei>iile  who  could  put  you  to  uotnid  of  \ 
trouble  if  they  chose.    I'm  going  in  tiii'ongh  ' 
those  gates,  and  you  must  oi)('n  tiiem.'  That's 
what  I  told  him,  and  wlu'U  I  eamt!  to-day  the 
gates  were  opened  for  me.    Hut  do  you  real- 
ly mean  to  say  that  this  villain  prevents 
your  going  out  f" 

"Yes,"  said  Edith,  mournfully. 

"  Surely  you  have  not  tried.     You  should 
assert  your  rights.     Hut  I  suppose  your  ti-  i 
midity  would  naturally  prevent  you."  | 

"  It  is  not  timidity  that  prevents  me.  I 
have  been  desperate  enough  to  do  any  thing.  I 
I  have  tried.  IndcH'd,  I  don't  know  what 
more  I  could  possibly  do  than  ■what  I  have 
done."  She,  jtaused.  She  was  not  going  to 
tell  every  thing  to  a  stranger. 

"Jliss  Dalton,"  sai<l  Dudleigh,  fervently, 
"I  can  not  exi)ress  my  Joy  at  the  happy  ac- 
cident that  has  brought  me  here.  For  it 
was  only  by  chance  that  I  canu;  to  Dalton, 
though  after  I  came  I  nainrally  thought  of 
you,  as  1  sai<l,  and  canus  here." 

"I  fear,"  said  Edith,  "that  it  may  seem 
strange  to  you  for  x\w  to  take  you  into  my 
confidence,  after  wo  have  only  interchanged 
Ji  few  words.  Hut  I  nuist  do  so.  I  hav(!  no 
alternative.  I  am  desi)erate.  I  am  tlie  Dal- 
ton of  Dalton  Hall,  and  I  tiiul  myself  in  the 
power  of  a  base  adventurer.  He  imprisons 
me.  He  sets  s])ies  to  watch  over  nie.  He 
directs  that  rullian  at  the  gates  to  turn  away 
my  friends,  and  tell  them  sonui  story  al)out 
my  grief  and  seclusion.  I  have  not  seen  any 
visitors  since  1  came." 

"Is  it  possible!" 

"  Well,  there  was  one  family — the  Mow- 
brays,  of  whom  I  need  S!iy  nothing." 

"Tiie  Mowbrays?"  said  Dudleigh,  with  a 
strange  glance. 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  about  thera?" 
asked  EditJi. 

"  Pardon  me.  Miss  Dalton  ;  I  prefer  to  say 
nothing  about  them." 

"  IJy  all  means,  I  prefer  to  say  nothing 
about  them  myself.'' 

"  Hut,  Miss  Dalton,  I  feel  confounded  and 

bewildered.     I  can  not  uuderstaiul  you  even 

•  yet.     Do  you  really  mean  to  say  that  yon, 

the  mistress  of  these  estates,  the  heiress,  the 


lady  of  Dalton  Hall — that  you  are  restricted 
in  this  way  and  by  him  ?" 

"  It  is  all  most  piiinfully  true,"'  said  Edith. 
"  It  almost  breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  such 
a  humiliation,  tint  it  is  true.  I  have;  been 
here  for  months,  literally  a  prisoner.  I 
have  absolutely  no  comnmnicafion  with  my 
friends,  or  with  the  outside  world.  Tliis 
man  Wiggins  declares  tliat  ht;  is  my  guard- 
ian, and  can  do  as  he  chooses.  He  says 
that  a  guardian  has  as  much  authority  over 
his  ward  as  a  father  over  his  child." 

"Oil!  I  think  I  understaiul.  He  may  be 
partly  right,  after  all.  You  are  young  yet, 
you  know.     You  are  not  of  age." 

"I  am  of  age,"  said  I'^dith,  mournfully, 
"  and  that  is  what  makes  it  so  intolerable. 
If  I  were  uiuler  age  I  fnight  bear  it  for  a 
time.  There  might  tlun  appear  to  be,  at 
least,  the  show  of  right  on  his  si(i(^  Hut  as 
it  is,  ther(>,  is  nothing  but  might.  He  has 
imprisoned  nu;.  He  has  put  mo  under 
surveillance.  I  am  watched  at  this  mo- 
ment." 

"  Who  ?  where  ?"  exclaimed  Dudleigh, 
looking  hastily  around. 

"01),  in  the  woods — a  black  named  Hugo. 
He  tracks  me  like  a  blood-hound,  and  never 
loses  sight  of  me  when  I  am  out.  He  may 
not  hear  what  we  are  saying,  but  he  will  tell 
his  master  that  I  have  spoken  with  you." 

"Are  tlu.-re  spies  in  the  Hall?" 

"Oh  yes;  his  housekeeper  watches  me 
always." 

"  Is  there  no  place  where  we  can  talk  with- 
out being  seen  or  heard?  Heli(!V(>  me.  Miss 
Dalton,  your  situation  fills  me  with  grief 
and  pity.  All  this  is  so  unexpected,  so 
strange,  so  incredilde !" 

"  AVe  may,  ])erhaps,  bo  more  free  from  ob- 
servation in  the  Hall — at  least  I  think  so. 
The  drawing-ro(uu  is  bettiu-  than  this.  Will 
you  allow  mo  to  do  tlie  honors  of  Dalton 
Hall  ?" 

Dudleigh  bowed,  and  the  two  walked 
toward  the  Hall,  and  entering,  proceeded  to 
the  drawing-room. 

"  Wo  ar(>  nndoubti'dly  watched,  even 
here,"  said  Edith,  with  a  nudaneholy  smile, 
"but  the  watcher  can  not  ol)serv(>  us  very 
well,  and  has  to  stand  too  far  oii'  to  hear  us 
easily,  so  that  this  room  is  perhaps  better 
than  out-of-doors;  at  any  rate,  it  is  more 
convenient." 

"Miss  Dalton,"  SP'  , 'Udleigh,  "I  am 
glad  beyond  all  that  w</i(ls  can  say  that  1 
managed  to  get  through  your  gat(>s.  My 
vague  threats  terrified  Wiggins,  though  in 
reality  I  have  no  kiu)wledgt^  about  him  suffi- 
ciently delinife  to  give  me  any  !ictnal  power 
over  him.  1  have  only  heard  general  scandal, 
in  which  he  was  nnxed  up.  Hut  \w  has 
given  me  credit  for  km)wing  sotnefhing  im- 
])ortant.  At  any  rate,  now  that  I  am  hei'e, 
let  me  do  sonn-thing  for  you  at  once.  Com- 
mand me,  and  I  will  obey." 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


6» 


talk  with- 
in', Miss 
til  >;rict' 
ctL'd,    so 


•d,  evon 
oly  sinilt', 
us  very 
1)  licar  us 
ps  better 
is  more 

"I  am 
ay  that  I 
ites.  My 
houf^h  in 
hiniKulli- 
lal  i)owor 
1  seaudal, 
it  he  has 
thinj^  ini- 
lam  here, 
to.    Com- 


"  I  want  but  ono  thing,"  said  Edith,  "  and 
that  is  to  fi;et  out." 

•'  Well  ?" 

"  Will  you  lead  the  way  and  let  mo  fol- 
low f     That  is  all  I  ask  of  you." 

"Certainly,  and  if  you  eould  only  po  out 
over  my  dead  body,  tliat  i)rice  should  ho 
paid,  and  you  should  go." 

Dudleigh  spoko  (juickly,  hut  with  no  i)ar- 
ticular  earnestness.  Indeed,  in  all  his  tones 
there  was  a  laclt  of  earnestness.  Tht!  words 
were  excellent,  but  they  lacki^d  depth  and 
warmth.  Edith,  however,  was  too  much 
excited  by  tho  prospect  of  help  to  notice 
tliis. 

"Tlu:.e  is  no  need  of  that,"  said  sho ; 
"  :here  is  no  real  danger." 

"  I  ratlier  think  from  the  look  of  that  ruf- 
lian  at  th(!  gate  that  tliere  will  be  some  such 
price,"  said  Dudleigh,  carelessly.  "  If  I  had 
o)ily  brought  my  i)istols,  all  would  ho  easy. 
Can  it  be  managed?  How  shall  we  do  it? 
l)n  you  think  that  you  have  nerve  enough, 
Miss  Dalton,  to  witness  a  tight  V 

"Yes,"  said  Edith,  calmly. 

"  If  I  had  my  pistols,"  said  Dudleigh, 
thoughtfully,  "I  might—  I3ut  as  it  is,  if  they 
see  you  accompanying  me,  they  will  assem- 
ble in  force." 

"  Yes,"  said  Edith,  sadly,  for  sho  began  to 
s(m;  dilhculties. 

"Now  do  you  think  that  if  you  aro  with 
nie  the  jjorter  will  open  tho  gates  ?" 

"He  will  not." 

"Well,  wo  nnist  get  out  in  some  other 
way.  Can  you  climb  the  wall  ?  I  might 
climb  and  help  you  over." 

"  Yes,  but  they  would  ftdlow  and  prevent 
us." 

Dudleigh  looked  at  tho  lloor.  Then  lu; 
put  his  small  gloved  hand  on  his  forehead, 
and  appeared  for  a  few  moments  to  ho  lost 
in  thought. 

"Miss  Dalton,"  said  ho  at  last,  "I  am  at 
your  service.  Can  you  tell  me  what  I  can 
do? — for  to  save  my  life  I  can  think  of  noth- 
ing,just  now.     Giv(^  me  my  orders." 

Edith  looked  perplexed.  IShe  knew  that 
tliis  man  could  not  forc(!  his  way  unarmed 
through  the  gates.  She  did  not  feel  inclined 
just  yet  to  tell  him  to  arm  himself  and  shoot 

any  one  dead  who  opjiosed  him.     Sh( uld 

not  bear  to  think  of  that.  Ihit  here  was 
biuUeigh,  ready. 

"  Have  you  any  fire-arras  in  tho  house  ?" 
bo  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Edith,  "and,  besides,  I  can  not 
l)ear  just  yet  to  cause  any  thing  like  blood- 
(ihe.l." 

"  If  not,  then  you  can  not  get  free  at 
oiiee.     Can  you  wait  one  day,  or  two  days  ?" 

"Oiui  or  two  days!"  said  Edith.  "Oh 
yes;  one  or  two  weeks,  or  even  months. 
Oidy  let  nu»  hoi)e,  and  I  can  wait." 

"You  have  tills  to  comfort  yi>u,  at  any 
rate,"'    said    Dudleigh,    "  that    outside    the 


j  gates  you  have  a  friend.  And  now  I  will 
1  not  intrude  aiiy  longer.  I  nnist  go.  Ihit  if 
!  you  will  allow  nie  I  will  como  back  to-mor- 
row. Meanwhile  I  will  try  to  think  over 
I  what  is  best  to  be  done." 

"  You  will  promise,"  said  Edith,  implor- 
ingly, "  not  to  desert  me  V 
\  "  Desert  you  ?  Never  !  On  tho  honor  of 
a  gentleman  !"  cried  Dudleigh ;  and  as  ho 
bowed  his  head  there  cime  over  his  face  a 
very  singular  smile,  which  Edith,  however, 
did  not  see. 

lie  then  took  his  leave. 


CIIArTEU  XX. 

FAITHFUL   rXTO   DKATII. 

EniTii  slept  but  little  that  night.     The 

prospect  of  escape  agitated  her  wh(d(!  being, 

and  the  new  friend  who  had  so  unexpoctod- 

ly  appeared  took  up  all  her  thoughts. 

1      Ho  was  a  little  nuni  most  certainly,  and 

!  Edith  already  caught  herself  thinking  of 

him  nn  "  Littlv  Diidleiyh."     lit!  had  nothing 

whatf^ver  of  the  hero  about  him.    Mowbray, 

as  far  as  ai)i)earances  went,  far  snrpas.sed 

!  her  new  aci|uainfance  in  that  respect.    Still 

Edith  felt  bound  to  overlook  or  to  (!xcu.se 

>  his  slight  frame,  and  in  the  effort  to  do  this 

sho  recalled  all  tho  little   men  of  history. 

Sho  thought  of  a  saying  which  she  had  once 

heard,  that  "all  great  men  are  small  men." 

This  sentiment  iucliuled  under  the  head  of 

1  littli!  men  Alexander  the  Croat,  .Iiilius  Ca;- 

I  sar.  Napoleon,  with  others  of  the  sanui  class, 

'  for  the  list  had  evidently  been  nuuh;  u])  by 

One  who  was  him.self  a  little  man,  and  was 

anxious  to  enter  a  forcible  jirotest  against 

tht!  sct)rn  of  his  bigger  brethren.     On  the 

jirescnt  ticeasiou  the  list  t>f  little  hert)es  was 

'  St)  ftirmitlablo  that  Edith  was  )>repared  to 

find   in  "Little  DuiUeigh"  all  she  wisht-d. 

Still,  in  spitt!  tif  his  generous  oilers,  and  his 

chiv,ilrt)us  ju'oposal  to  put  ihiwn  his  ilead 

btitly  tor  her  tt)  march  over,  sfie  ilitl  nt)t  feel 

for  bini  (bat  adniirat  i()n  which  sutli  heroism 

tleservcil ;   anil  slit!  even  reiiroached  herself 

for  iier  lack  of  ctimmtin  gratitutle,  for  in  her 

high  s])irits  at  Iht:   pri>spect  of  escape,  she 

eaiight   herself  more  than  tinco  smiling  at 

the  recollection  tif  "Little  DntUeighV  little 

ways,  his  luimiicss,  antl  eli'cminafy. 

At  abtmt  ten  ti'cliick  on  the  following  day 
"Little  Dudleigh"  came  back. 

"That  beggar  at  the  gate,"  saiil  he,  after 
tht!  usual  greetings,  "  looks  very  liaril  at  me, 
but  hi!  ilt)csn't  i>retcntl  to  hiiuler  me  fro!u 
coming  t)r  gt>ing  just  yet,  thtiugh  what  ho 
may  tit)  in  timt!  ifiiiains  to  be  seen." 

"01i,"saitl  Ivlitli,  "you  must  manage  to 
get  me  out  betbrt!  Wiggins  has  a  chance  to 
prevent  yt)n  from  coming  in." 

"  I  ht)pi!  st),"  saiil  DutUeigh.  "Of  course, 
Miss  Dalton,  as  you  may  suppt).se,  I  have  been 


■  ! 


70 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


R 


I    MUST    L'Sli    TUKSli,   TIIKN. 


thinking  of  yon  cvor  since  I  left  yon,  and 
pliinnin^  a  thousand  Hch(>nie,s.  But  I  liavi; 
niudo  np  my  mind  to  tliis,  and  yon  mnst 
make  np  yonrs  to  the  satiu^  I  am  sorry, 
bnt  it  can  aot  be  avoided.  I  mean  blood- 
shed." 

"  Bloodslied  !"  said  Edith,  sadly. 

"Of  coni'so  it  is  teiTiljlo  to  a  lady  to  he 
the  canse  of  bloodshed,"  said  Dndleii;;h,  qni- 
etly,  "and  if  there  were  any  otlu'v  way  I 
wonld  find  it  out,  or  yon  wonld  know  abont 
it.  Bnt  iVoni  what  I  liave  seen  and  heard, 
and  from  wliat  I  know  of  WiKKi"'^i  I  •'**'''  1^1'"f 
there  is  noihinj;  leff  bnt  to  force  onr  way 
ont,  for  the  place  is  thorougldy  jjnarded  day 
and  nijjht." 

"So  it  is,''  said  Edith,  monrnfnlly. 

"If  I  talvo  yon  ont,  I  must — ■  Are  we 
overheard?"'  ho  asked,  looking  cantionsly 
aronnd. 

"  I  think  not ;  at  least  not  if  yon  speak 
low." 

"  I  mnst  nso  these,  then,"  said  he,  drawin;]; 
a  brace  of  pistols  in  a  careless  way  from  liis 
coat  ]>ocket,  and  showinji  tliem  to  Editli. 

Editli  recoiled  involnntarily.  Bloodsjied, 
and  perhaps  deatli,  the  scandal  Unit  wonld 
arise,  arrest  iJcrliajts,  or  examination  before 
magistrates— all  these  thonglits  came  before 
Iwv.  SJK^  was  l)ravl^,  bnt  tilings  like  tlii>se 
conld  not  be  iigiitly  faced.  ,Slie  was  bi'ave, 
but  slie  could  not  decide  Just  yet  tliat  any 
man's  life  shonld  be  taken  for  the  sake  of 
her  liberty. 


"  I  can  not  bear  that,"  said  she. 

"Yon  will  get  nsed  to  them,"  said  Dnd- 
hugh,  cheerfully.    "They  arc  easy  to  handle." 

"  But  tliem  back." 

"  Bnt  what  else  is  there  to  do?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Edith,  in  a 
dejected  tone. 

"Well,"  said  Dndleigh,  after  a  panse,  "I 
thonght  of  this.  It  is  natural.  I  anticipated 
some  snch  objection  as  this  on  yonr  part. 
I  know  very  well  what  it  is  that  yon  fear, 
and  I  don't  know  but  that  you  are  right. 
Still,  I  have  otlwr  idans.  which  may  not  ap- 
pear so  objectionable.  Bnt  in  the  tirst  ])lace, 
let  me  know  linally,  do  yon  jiositively  and 
absolutely  rejiM't  this  f  and  he  tapjied  the 
pistols  signilicMiitly. 

"I  can  not  yet  consent  to  ri.sk  any  life," 
said  Edith. 

"  Very  w<'ll ;  this  may  remain  over  nntil 
every  thing  else  fails." 

"  Bnt  couldn't  yon  nse  these  pistols  to 
terrify  them  ?  The  sight  miglit  make  tliem 
open  the  gates." 

"  Bnt  it  might  not,  and  what  then?  Are 
you  ])repiired  to  answer  that  ?"  An  "Little 
Dudh'igh,''  who  had  been  speaking  abont 
thes(!  things  as  lightly  and  as  carelessly  as 
a  lady  wonld  speak  abont  a  dress  or  the 
trimmings  of  a  lionnet,  ]iansed,  jiiid  looked 
at  her  iiKiuiriiigly.  "  Th(^  fact  is,"'  he  con- 
tinned,  as  Ivlitli  did  not  answer,  "yon  mnst 
l)e  willing  to  run  this  r.  'c  of  kUUnij  a  man. 
Your  liberty  is  worth  this  price.    If  you  say 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


71 


to  mc,  '  Open  thoHf*  gates,'  that  is  what  yon 
iniiHt  cucountiT.  Will  yon  face  it  T  Say  the 
word,  and  now,  now,  at  this  very  moment,  I 
will  lead  yon  thciT." 

Tlio  oft'tT  of  iiniiiodiato  cscapo  was  thns 
])r<'si'nt('d,  and  for  a  moment  lidith  hesita- 
ted, Init  the  cost  was  too  fjreat. 

" Oh,"  she  cried,  " this  is  teiiihle !  Bnt  I 
will  not  consent.  No,  I  will  snffcr  lon^^ci" 
rather  than  pay  so  frightful  a  price  as  hu- 
man life." 

"Well,"  said  Dndloigh,  "after  all,  since 
yon  have  dt.'cided  this  way,  I  think  you  are 
al)ont  right.  After  all,  there  is  really  no 
necessity  for  so  des])erat<^  a  course.  Hut  I 
have  a  high  idea  of  what  a  lady  has  a  right 
to  demand  of  a  gentleman,  and  1  am  ready 
to  do  what  you  say." 

"  Hut  you  have  otlier  plans,  have  yon 
not  V 

"  Yes,  bnt  slow  ones — safe  hut  slow.  The 
question  is,  can  you  wait?  Can  you  endure 
your  present  life  ?  and  how  long?" 

"Kather  than  eaus(!  the  loss  of  life,"  said 
lldith,  "  I  would  endure  this  A'ery  much 
longer." 

"Oh,  you  will  not  liave  to  endure  it  so 
very  long.  If  you  are  not  too  impatient,  the 
timi!  may  pass  quickly  too.  lint  before  I 
make  any  further  jiroposals,  will  y()u  allow 
mc!  to  ask  you  one  ((uestion  ?  It  is  this: 
Sup))((se  you  were  to  escape  to-day,  where 
would  you  go  ?" 

"I  have  thought  about  that,"  said  Edith. 
"My  dearest  friend  is  Miss  Plympton.  She 
is  the  head  of  the  .school  where  I  hav(!  spent 
th(5  greater  part  of  my  life.  She  is  tli(!  one 
to  whom  1  should  naturally  go,  but  she  keeps 
a  boarding-seliool,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  go 
there  and  meet  my  old  school-mates  and  sec 
so  many.  I  wish  to  be  secluded.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  of  going  to  that  neigh- 
borhood, and  linding  a  home  where  1  could 
occasionally  sec^  Miss  Plympton,  and  at  other 
times  1  have  thought  of  going  to  my  uncle. 
Sir  Lionel  Dudleigli." 

At  this  last  remark  Dudleigli  opened  his 
eyes.  , 

"  Who  ?"  he  asked.    "  I  don't  understand." 

"lie  is  my  uncle,  you  know,"  said  Edith 
— "  that  is,  by  marriagt; — and  therefon;  he 
is  naturally  the  on(!  to  whom  I  should  look 
for  defense  against  Wiggiii'..  In  that  case 
Sir  Lionel  will  Ix!  far  better  than  poor  dear 
Auntie  Plympton.  I'm  af  aid  that  Wig- 
juus  has  already  frightened  her  away  from 
nw.r 

'•  Hut  how  would  you  get  to  Sir  Lionel  ?" 
asked  Dndleigh,  with  a  ]iuzzled  exjjression. 

"Well,  that  is  what  I  want  to  lind  out. 
I  liav(^  no  idea  where  he  lives.  Hut  you  can 
tell  me  all  about  him.  I  should  have  asked 
b(!f(Me,  btit  other  things  interfered.  I  will 
go  to  him.  I  feel  contidont  that  he  will  not 
cast  nu<  off." 

"  Cast  you  off!     I  should  think  not,"  said 


Dndleigh  ;  "bnt  the  difficulty  is  how  to  find 
him.  Yon  can  get  to  Dudleigli  Manor  easily 
enough — every  body  knows  wliere  that  is. 
Hut  what  then  ?     Nobody  is  there." 

"  What !     Is  not  Sir  Lionel  there  T" 

"Sir  Lionel  there!  I  only  wish  he  was. 
Why,  is  it  possible  that  yon  do  not  know 
that  Sir  Lionel  is  positively  not  in  En- 
gland? He  travels  all  the  time,  and  only 
comes  home  occasionally.  P'Mha[)syou  know 
the  cause— his  family  troubles  ten  years  ago. 
He  had  a  row  with  his  wife  then,  and  it  has 
l)lighted  his  life.  Sir  Lionel?  Why,  at  this 
moment  1  dare  say  he  is  somewhere  among 
the  I'ral  Mountains,  or  Patagonia,  or  some 
other  ei|ually  remote!  country.  Hut  who  told 
you  that  lui  was  in  England  ?" 

Edith  was  silent.  She  had  taken  it  for 
gr.'inted  that  Sir  Lionel  lived  in  his  own 
home. 

"  Can  I  not  write  to  him  V  she  asked. 

"Of  course,  if  you  can  only  secure  his  ad- 
dress; an:!  that  I  will  do  my  ntiixist  to  tiiid 
out  for  you.  But  to  do  this  will  be  a  work 
of  time." 

"Yes,"  sighed  Edith. 

"And  what  can  you  do  in  the  mean  time  ? 
W'hen^  can  you  go  ?" 

"There  is  Miss  Plympton." 

"Yes,  your  teacher.  And  yon  dcjn't  wish 
to  go  to  the  school,  but  to  some  private  place 
near  it.  Now  what  sort  of  a  woman  is  Miss 
Plym]iton  t     Hold  and  courageous  1" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Edith,  after  a 
tlioughtful  pause.  "I  know  that  she  loves 
me  like  a  mother,  and  when  I  tirst  came  here 
I  should  have  relied  on  her  to  the  utmost. 
Hut  now  I  don't  know.  At  any  rate,  I  think 
she  can  be  easily  terrifiecl."  And  Edith  went 
on  to  tell  about  Miss  Plympton's  letter  to 
her,  and  subsecinent  silence. 

"I  think  with  you,"  .said  Dudleigli,  after 
Edith  had  ended," ''that  the  letter  is  a  for- 
gery. Hut  what  is  dillicnlt  to  understand  is 
this  app.'irent  <leseition  of  you.  This  may  b<! 
ace(>unted  for,  however,  in  one  of  two  ways. 
First,  Wiggins  may  actually  havt;  seen  lier, 
and  frightened  her  in  some  way.  You  say 
shi-  is  timid.  The  other  explanation  of  her 
silenc(!  is  that  she  may  be  ill." 

"  ill !"  exclaimed  Edith,  mournfully. 

"  It  may  be  so." 

"  Jlay  she  :)ot  all  this  time  have  been  try- 
ing to  rescue  .lie,  and  been  batlled  ?" 

Dudleigli  smiled. 

"  Oh  no.  If  she  had  tried  at  all  you  would 
have  heard  something  about  it  before  this: 
something  would  certainly  have;  been  done. 
The  claim  of  Wiggins  would  liavt^  been  con- 
tested in  a  court  of  law.  Oh  no  ;  she  has  ev- 
idently done  nothing.  In  fact,  1  think  that, 
sad  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  about  her  illness.  You  say  she  left 
you  here.  No  doubt  she  felt  terrible  anxi- 
ety. The  next  <lay  she  could  not  see  yt)u. 
H'v  love  for  you,  and  her  anxiety,  would,  per- 


79 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


f!' 


lm])s,  b(!  ton  much  for  Iut.     Slio  may  have 

IXHMI  tilkt'll  llOIIIO  ill." 

Edith  Hi^Iicd.  Tiio  i)i('tiir(^  of  Mi.s.s  Plyinp- 
ton's  yricf  was  t(K)  iinicli  for  litT.  [ 

"At  any  rat«,"  said  hIw,  "if  I  raii't  find 
any  frieiidH — if  Sir  Lionel  is  >;ont',  and  poor! 
doar  aiiutiu  is  ill,  I  ciiii  lio  fn^e.     I  can  help  ! 
nurso  her.   Any  life  is  licttfir  thim  this ;  and  I 
can  i)nt  my  case  in  tho  hands  of  tho  lawyi-rs."  | 

"Yon  are,  of  conrse,  well  supplied  with  I 
money/'  said  Dudleigh,  carelessly. 

"  iioncy  f" 

"  Y('s ;  so  as  to  travel,  yon  know,  and  live, 
and  i>ay  your  lawyers." 

"1  have  no  money,"  said  Edilli,  helpless- 
ly; "that  is,  not  moie  than  a  few  sover- 
oigns.     I  did  not  think  of  that." 

"  No  money  ?" 

"Xo— only  ii  little." 

"No  money  If  Why,  how  is  that?  No 
money  ?    Why,  what  can  yon  do  ?" 

"  WifiK'"**  managoa  every  thing,  and  has 
all  tho  money." 

"  Yon  have  never  obtained  any  from  him 
as  yet,  tlienf" 

"I  have  never  needed  any  " 

"  He  Hpen<ls  your  own  i  ney  in  paying 
these  spies  and  jailers.  I^  T  you  have  no 
money,  how  can  you  maua^ii  to  live,  even  if 
you  do  escape  V 

Etlith  looked  down  in  despair.     The  idea 
of  money  had  ni^ver  entered  her  mind.     Yet 
now,  since  it  was  mentioned,  she  felt  its  im- 
portance.    Yes,  nuuiey  was  the  eliief  thing;  , 
without  that  flight  was  iiseless,  and  liherly  I 
inii)ossil»l«!.    But,  how  could  she  get  it  1    Wig- 
gins would  not  give  her  any.     And  where  , 
could  she  go?     Could  she  go  to  Hiss  l'lynii»-  ) 
ton's,  to  be  a  dependent  upon  her  at   the 
.school?      That    thought    was    intolerable. 
Much  as  she  loved  Miss  Plyinpton,  she  could  1 
not  (lescend  to  that.  i 

"You  are  certainly  not  very  practical,"  I 
said  Dudleigh,  "  or  your  first  thought  would  ; 
have  been  ab(uit  this.     Hut  you  have  none, 
you  say,  iuid  so  it  can  not  be  remedied.     Is 
there  any  thing  else?     You  see  you  can  cs- 
cajie;  but  what  then?" 

Dudleigh  was  silent,  and  Edith  looked  at 
Lim  in  deej)  suspense. 

"  You  say  you  never  see  Wiggins  now  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Y(m  are  not  subject  to  insults?" 

"  No— to  none." 

"  Have  you  the  Hall  to  yoursi-lf  ?"  ' 

"Oh  yes;  I  am  not  interfered  with.  As 
long  as  I  stay  inside  the  Hall  I  am  left  to 
myself — only  I  am  watched,  of  course,  as  I 
told  you." 

"Of  course;  but,  at  any  rate,  it  seems  a 
sort  of  honorable  ca])tivity.     You  are  not 
like  a  cajitive  in  a  dungeon,  for  instance." 
"Oh  no." 

"  Would  you  rather  be  here,  as  you  are,  or  j 
at  Miss  Plymptoii's  school  as  a  sort  of  Ue- 
peudeut  ?"  I 


"  Here,  of  course.  I  could  not  go  back 
there,  and  face  theuj  all." 

"Would  you  rather  live  luire  or  in  some 
mean  lodging,  without  money  to  pay  your 
board  ?" 

"  Here,"  said  Edith,  after  a  pauso. 

"  Thert!  an!  worse  situations  in  tho  world 
than  thi.s,  then?" 

"  It  seems  so,"  said  Edith,  slowly. 

"  Hy  leaving  this  just  now  you  would  be 
doing  worse,  then?" 

"  It  looks  like  it." 

"  Well,  then,  may  it  not  be  better  for  you 
to  renniin  here,  for  the  present  at  least,  un- 
til you  hear  something  from  Sir  Lionel  Dud- 
leigh ?" 

"  But  how  long  will  that  bo  ?" 

"lea-',  not  tell." 

"Is  ihere  nothing  else?" 

"Certainly  the  fir^t  thing  for  you  to  do  is 
to  se(!  a  lawyer." 

"  But  how  can  I  ?" 

"I  can  fiiul  one." 

"But  will  you?" 

"Of  course.  I  shall  be  most  happy.  Only 
answer  me  tliis:  If  a  lawyer  takes  up  your 
case,  shall  you  be  willing  to  live  hen;,  or 
shall  you  insist  on  leaving  ?" 

"I  should  jirefer  leaving,"  said  Edith; 
"but  at  the  same  time,  if  a  lawyer  has  my 
case,  and  I  can  feel  that  something  is  l)eing 
done,  I  can  be  content  here,  at  least  for  a 
time,  until  I  hear  from  Sir  Lionel — or  Miss 
I'lympton." 

"  W(!ll,  then,  for  the  jjresent  at  least,  you 
give  up  the  idea  of  fighting  your  way  out?'' 

"  Yes — I  suppose  so." 

"Then  all  that  I  have  to  do  is  to  get  a 
lawyer  for  you,  and  write  to  Sir  Lionel, 
wheiever  he  is." 

"  You  will  not  let  Wiggins  keep  my  law- 
yer away?"  said  Edith,  in  an  imploring  voice. 

"Oh,  I  fancy  ho  has  such  a  wholesome 
dread  of  lawyers  that  he  won't  try  to  keeji 
one  out.  At  any  rate,  these  lawyers  have 
all  kinds  of  ways,  you  know,  of  getting  iuto 
places." 

"  And  of  getting  people  out  of  places,  too, 
I  hope." 

"  I  should  bo  sorry  not  to  hope  that." 

So  Edith  found  herself  compelled  to  faco 
th(!  dilliculties  of  her  i)resent  situation  a  lit- 
tle longer,  and  endure  as  best  she  could  the 
restraint  of  her  imprisonmeut. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

A  WARNING. 

Tiir  barriers  which  Wiggins  had  raised 
between  Edith  and  the  outer  world  had  thus 
been  surmounted  by  two  persons  —  first, 
Mowbray,  aiul  second, Little I)ndlt;igh.  Mow- 
bray bad  come  and  gone  without  any  sign 
of  objection  or  rcuioustrauce  from  her  jail- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


73 


er;  and  now  Eilitli  rnnld  not  help  woiHlfriiif; 
ut  thd  facility  with  wiiich  tlm  lu'w-comcr, 
UudlciKh,  iiasscil  and  n'lia.sscd  thosf  jealous- 
ly K"i"''l''d  limits.  l)udU'i;;irs  ixtwcr  aroso 
I'loiii  sonic  i;no\vli'djf()  of  I  lie  past  history  of 
Wijfj;ins,  hut  the  knowlcdy;*)  did  not  seem 
very  dctinitt'.  and  she  coidd  not  liidp  wou- 
drrinj;  how  long  his  visits  would  bo  tolev- 
ati'd. 

.Sho  was  not  left  to  wonder  lonfi;.  On  tlu; 
(iveniii};  of  the  day  on  wiiieli  Diidleigh  had 
niad(?  his  last  visit  Wiggins  eanio  to  see  her. 
She  had  not  seen  him  since  that  time  when 
he  hail  hrongiit  her  the  so-calh'd  letter  of 
Miss  l'lymi)ton,  except  oneo  wht^n  she  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him  when  riding  with 
Mowl)ray.  Ih^  now  ent<'red  in  his  usual 
niauner,  with  his  solemn  face,  his  fiu'niul 
bow,  his  abstracted  gaze.  I^t^  sat  down, 
ami  for  a  few  moments  said  nothing. 

"I  do  not  often  inllict  my  presenco  on 
you,  Miss  Dalton,"  said  he  iit  length.  "I 
have  too  nnu'h  regard  for  you  to  iutrudi; 
upon  yon.  Home  day  yon  will  understand 
me,  and  ■will  a])pre('iate  my  present  course. 
It  is  oidy  for  your  own  sako  that  I  now 
come,  because  I  see  that  you  are  thought- 
less and  reckless,  and  are  living  under  a 
delusion.  You  an;  almost  ))cyond  my  con- 
trol, yet  I  still  hoi)o  that  I  may  have  sonu) 
faint  iullueneo  over  you — or  at  least  I  can 
try." 

His  tone  wa.s  gentle  and  affectionato.  It 
was,  in  fact,  i)aternal  in  its  character ;  but 
this  tone,  instead  of  softening  Edith,  only 
seemed  to  her  a  fresii  instance  of  his  arrogant 
assumption,  and,  as  such,  excited  her  cou- 
temi)t  and  indignation.  These  feelings, 
however,  she  repressed  for  the  moment,  and 
looked  at  him  with  a  cold  and  austere  face. 

"  You  have  l)een  receiving  visitors,"  Im 
continued,  "  visitors  whom  I  could  have  kept 
away  if  I  had — chosen.  But  to  th)  so  would 
have  interfered  with  my  plans,  and  so  I  h;ive 
tolerated  them.  You,  however,  have  been 
all  aloug  under  such  a- — mistake — about  me 
— and  my  intentions— that  you  have  thrown 
yourself  upon  these  strangers,  and  have, 
I  grieve  to  say,  eu(hingered  yonr  own  fu- 
ture, and  mine,  more  than  you  can  jiossi- 
bly  imagine.  Your  tirst  visitor  was  olijec- 
tionabU',  iiut  I  tolerated  him  for  reasons  that 
I  need  not  explain  ;  but  tiiis  last  visitor  is 
one  who  ought  not  to  be  tolerated  either  by 
you  or  by  me.  And  now  I  come  to  you  to 
give  you — ca — -an  att'ectionatc!  warning — to 
ask  of  you  not  to  bo  so  reckless,  so  care- 
less of  your  best  interests,  so  l)lind  to  the 
great  issues  that  are  at  stake  in — a — my — 
present  plans." 

"  You  appear  to  me,"  said  Edith,  coldly, 
''  to  have  somi;  reference  to  Lieutenant  Dud- 
Icigl;." 

'•  Tiiat  is  what  ho  calls  himself." 

"Calls  himself r' 

"  Yes.    This  name  Dudleigh  is  an  assumed 


one.  IIo  took  that  so  as  to  gain  your  confi- 
dence." 

"  You  api>ear  to  km)W  Lini  very  well." 

"I  do  not." 

"  How  do  yoii  know,  thou,  that  thisnamo 
is  assumed  V 

"  Hccause  I  lia]>|ien  to  know  the  Dud- 
l(!igh  family,  an<l  this  man  docH  not  belong 
to  it.     I  never  saw  him  before." 

"  There  nw  more  Diidleigiis  in  the  world 
th.MU  tile  family  you  speak  of." 

"He  is  an  adventurer,"  said  Wiggins. 
"You  know  nothing  about  him.  I  believe 
his  name  is  false,  as  he  himself  is  false. 
Does  h(^  not  i)retend  to  be  the  son  of  Sir 
Lionel  r 

"  No ;  he  says  that  bo  is  only  a  distant 
relation  to  Sir  Lionel." 

"He  is  no  relation  whatever,"  said  Wig- 
gins. "You  are  allowing  yourself  to  bo 
led  astray  by  a  nnin  of  whom  you  know 
nothing  —  a  designing  villain,  an  adven- 
turer." 

"  It  is  strange  that  you  should  ajiply  sindi 
terms  to  a  man  of  whom  you  yourself  ac- 
knowledge that  you  know  notiiing.  Hut, 
at  any  rate,"  contiinied  Edith,  with  strong 
emi)hasis,  "lie  k'ltoicn  you.  It  is  this  knowi- 
I'dge  that  gives  him  the  power  of  ])assiiig 
through  those  gates  which  you  shut  against 
me  ;  what  that  knowledge  may  be  you  your- 
self know  best." 

"  He  does  not  know  nn?,"  said  Wiggins. 

"He  nnist,"  said  Edith,  "for  the  simple 
reason  that  you  dan;  not  kecj)  hhu  out." 

Wiggins  looked  at  her  in  sileuce  for  some 
time. 

"It  is  a  terrilde  ordeal  for  me,"  said  he  at 
last,  in  a  slow,  measnn'd  tone,  "  to  talk  with 
you.  Y'ou  seem  to  nus  lik<!  one  who  is  m.id; 
but  it  is  the  madness  of  utter  ignorance. 
You  do  not  know.  Oh,  how  you  tempt  me, 
to  tell  you  all!  But  I  can  not,  I  can  not. 
My  lips  are  scaled  as  yet.  But  I  will  say  no 
more  on  that.  I  will  ask  yon  one  ciuestiou 
only.  It  is  this:  Can  you  in)t  see  with  your 
own  eyes  that  this  man  is  nothing  more  than 
a  iiu'ri!  adventurer?" 

"An  adventurer!"  repeated  Edith,  iudig- 
Uiuitly.  "  It  ill  l)eeonies  one  like  you  to  use 
such  a  word  as  that.  For  what  are  you 
yourself?  Lieutenant  ]")udleigli  is  a  gentle- 
man ;  ami  though  I  have  only  known  him 
for  a  short  time,  I  am  happy  in  calling  him 
my  friend.  I  will  tolerate  no  abuse  of  him. 
Why  do  you  not  say  this  to  his  lace  ?  If  he 
is  what  you  say,  why  do  yon  allow  him  to 
come  hen:  ?  An  adventurer  ?  Why,  that  is 
the  very  name  I  apply  in  all  my  thoughts  to 
you!" 

A  look  of  anguish  came  over  the  face  of 
Wiggins.  IT()  trembled  violently,  but  with 
an  efiort  nnistered  his  feelings.  Evidently 
what  he  said  was  true,  and  to  him  it  was  a 
severe  ordeal  to  carry  on  a  conversation  with 
Edith.     Her  scorn,  her  anger,  and  her  hato 


u 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


sii 


■  '  ■ 


:l 


.all  flainod  forth  ho  vohcmoiitly  thiit  it  was 
liiii'il  to  cnduir. 

"  If  yi>ii  could  only  rofraiii  from  tlicso  hit- 
tor  iiiHiilts!"  Miiid  li(>,  ii)  a  iiH.iiinfiil  voice. 
"If  yon  conld  only  jnit  !i  clicck  npon  yonr- 
Kclf  wiicn  yon  luik  witii  nic!  I  wisli  to 
i^jx-ak  calmly,  i)nt  yon  linrl  tannt.s  at  mo 
that  inflict  i'X(|uisit(^  ])ain.  Tiic  rcincm- 
i)ranc(!  of  Ihcm  will  one  day  fjivo  no  less  an- 
UniMli  to  yon,  lielieve  ine — oh,  believe  nic ! 
Si)are  me  these  tannt.s  ."ind  insnlts,  I  entn'at 
yon.  for  the  sake  ofliotli  of  ns!" 

"Hoth  of  ns^'  reiieated  Edith,  withont 
lieinj;  in  the  slij^litesl  dey,ree  alleeted  hy  the 
words  of  Wi;jj;inK.  "r.(tth  of  ns  ?  Yon 
seem  to  me  to  lie  inclndin;;  yonrself  and  \\w 
in  the  name  class,  as  thon;{li  then;  conld  he 
any  thinj^  in  common  hetween  me  and  one 
like  yon.  That  is  imjiossihle.  Onr  inter- 
ests are  forever  sejiarale." 

"  Y(ni  do  not  know,"  said  WijiKins,  with 
ii  preat  etVort  to  l)e  calm.  "  Tills  man — this 
Licntenaid  I)ndlei^,di,  as  he  calls  himself — 
is  an  enemy  to  hi>th  of  ns." 

"  Yon  ns('  that  exiiression  with  strange 
l)ertinaeity.  1  mnst  tell  yon  a<?ain  that 
there  can  not  ])ossiMy  he  any  thin;^  in  com- 
mon hetween  yon  and  me.  For  my  part,  I 
consider  yon  as  my  natnral  enemy.  Yon 
arc!  my  Jailer.  I  am  yonr  prisoner.  That 
is  all.  I  am  at  war  with  yon.  I  wonld 
ffive  half  of  my  ]iossessions  to  escape  from 
yonr  hands,  and  the  other  half  to  i)nnish 
yon  for  what  yon  have  <lom'.  I  live  in  the; 
lio]ie  of  some  day  metinj;'  ont  to  yon  the 
jinnishment  which  y(»nr  crimi's  deserve.  If 
any  one  is  an  enemy  of  yonrs,  that  one  thinf>; 
is  ii  sntticient  reconunendatiou  to  make  him 
a  frieml  of  mine." 

At  these  words  Wijjgin.s  seemed  to  endure 
.1  keener  anii;nish,  and  his  face  hore  npon  it 
th(^  same  jiallid  horror  which  she  had  seen 
there  Ix'fore  npon  a  similar  ))rovoeiiti()n.  He 
stared  at  Iier  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
bowing  down,  he  leaned  his  head  npon  his 
hand  and  looked  at  the  tloor  in  silence.  At 
last  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  at  her 
with  !i  calm  face. 

"Is  there  no  itossihle  way,"  said  he,  "in 
which  I  can  sjjcak  to  yon  without  reciMvinj; 
wounds  that  stinjj  liki^  the  fanjjs  of  a  ser- 
pent? Bo  i)atient  with  me.  If  I  oli'en<l, 
try  to  he  a  little  forhearinn' Just  now,  for  the 
sake  of  yourself,  if  for  notiiinji;  else.  Se(!,  1 
am  huniblinjj;  myself,  1  ask  your  forhear- 
,ance.  1  wish  to  sjx'ak  for  yonr  own  good. 
For,  as  it  is,  you  are  doing  you  know  not 
what.  You  an;  ruining  yourself;  ytui  are 
blighting  ami  blasting  yonr  own  future  ; 
you  art!  risking  your  reiuitation;  yon  are 
exposing  the  family  name  to  the  sneers  of 
the  woild,  once  again.  Think  of  yonr  fran- 
tic adveniare  at  the  gates  with  that — that 
Mowbray  I" 

Now  if  AViggiuH  had  wished  to  mollify 
Edith,  or  to  persuade  her  to  full  iu  with  his 


own  wishes,  lif»  was  certainly  most  iinfortn- 
nate  iu  his  way  of  going  about  it  ;  and  es- 
pecially in  such  an  allnsion  as  this.     For  no 

'  sooner  did  he  nu'iition  tin;  name  of  Mow- 
bray than  Edith  wiis  roused  to  a  fresh  ox- 
citciiu'iit. 

[  "  What !"  she  oxclaimod.  "  Do  yon  throw 
that  up  to  me — you  of  all  men  ?  \Vho,  I  ask 
you,  was  the  cause  of  all  the  shame  and  nds- 
cry  and  violence  that  I  snlfercd  there  ?     Who 

I  was  the  one  that  nnnli!  it  ni'cessaryf     Who 

I  was  the  one  that  bi'onght  mi'  to  such  a  i)itch 
of  dcsiH'ration  that  I  was  rea<ly  to  do  any 
thing,  however  wild  or  frantic  y  Who? 
Why,  yon  ytuirsidf— yon,  who  como  to  nio 
m)w,  and  with  a  soh^mn  voice;  ask  mo  to 
calm  myself.  Is  it  not  possible  for  you  to 
see  what  a  horribh;  mockery  all  this  must 
\w  to  me?     Ihit  I  will  do  what  yon  ask.     I 

I  will  be  calm  in  spite  of  all.     t'oiiu',  now,  I 

I  will  meet  yon  on  yonr  own  ground.  I  will 
ask  you  one  thing.  How  much  money  will 
you  take  to  lot  i\w  go  free  V" 

At  this  request  Wiggins  stared  at  her  with 
the  expression  of  one  who,  while  already 
reeling  under  a  stroke,  has  received  some 
new  blow.  \U'  started  fnun  his  chair  to  his 
feet,  ami  stood  for  a  nn)ment  n'gjirdiiig  her 
witli  an  in(lescril)able  look.  Ibit  again  ho 
mastered  his  emotions,  aiul  linally  resumed 

I  his  scat. 

I  "  I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  yon  !"  ho  ex- 
claimed. "  I  came  to  advise  yon,  and  to  warn 
you.  I  have  done  every  thing.  There  is 
one  thing  which  would  imt  an  en<l  to  all  this 
misery  which  yon  intliet  on  me,  Init  that  ono 
thing  I  wish  on  no  account  to  say  just  now. 
I  can  not  just  yet  give  up  the  hope  that  has 
cheered  mo  for  so  long  a  time ;  still,  I  nnist 
warn  yon,  Kasli  girl,  you  have  already  suf- 
fered from  this  Mowbray,  as  he  calls  him- 
self. Do  yon  not  see  that  this  new  visitor, 
this  so-called  Diulleigh,  is  nothing  else  than 
the  ally,  the  associate,  the  partner,  the  emis- 
sary of  Mowbray  ?" 

"The  associate  of  Mowbray,"  said  Edith, 
quietly,  "is  yourself.  Yon  sent  him  to 
nu\  I  hav(!  no  doubt.  Yon  have  your  own 
schemes,  AVhat  they  are  I  do  not  know,  nor 
do  I  care  to  know.  As  for  IJentenant  Dml- 
leigh,  hi;  is,  I  feel  sure,  an  honorable  gentle- 
nuin,  ami  his  associates  are  far,  very  far  dif- 
ferent from  such  as  yon  and  Mowbray,  Ho 
is  the  friend  of  one  whom  I  also  regard  now 
as  my  oidy  friend— ono  whom  I  never  ceaso 
to  jiray  to  reach — ono  whom  I  hoi)e  yet  to 
liml,  ami  by  his  help  escape  from  yonr  infa- 
mons  control,  and  punish  you  for  all  your 
villainy  toward  me  and  mine." 

"What  is  this?  \Vhat  do  von  mean? 
A  friend  ?'' 

Wiggins  uttered  these  words  in  a  bewil- 
dered way. 

"The  frieml  whom  I  hope  to  reach,"  said 
Edith,  "  the  one  to  whom  I  look  for  veuge- 

j  auco  ou  you,  is  Sir  Lionel  Dudleigh." 


ill  tills 

lill   Olio 

now. 
hat  has 
I  imist 
(ly  siif- 

hiiii- 

visitor, 

Isf  than 

ic  cniis- 

Kdith, 
liiiii  to 
tir  own 
ow,  nor 
It  Dml- 
fffiitle- 
lar  dif- 
y.  He 
rd  now 
■r  cease 

yet  to 
ir  ill  fa- 
ll your 

"mean  ? 

bewil- 

,'•  said 
IvenKe- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


75 


"  Sir  Lionel  Diidleinh  !''  ropcatod  WijifginH, 
with  a  groan.     "  You!" 

"Yes,  Sir  Lionel  l)udlei«li!"  said  Kdilli. 
"I  see  that  jou  are  aj^itated  at  tlie  mention 
of  that  naiiii; — the  name  of  an  lionoi'al)le 
man — a  man  of  stainless  name,  who  has 
nothing  in  eomnion  with  sueh  as  you.  Let 
1110  ti'll  you  that  the  time  will  yet  I'ome 
wlieii  you  shall  have  to  meet  Sir  Lionel  Diid- 
leifjh  fae((  to  face,  and  thou  you  will  buvo 
reason  to  tremlihi!" 

At  this  \Vi<iKins  ro.so.  Ho  did  not  look  at 
Edith.  He  (lid  not  say  a  word.  He  seemed 
<iverwhelmed.  His  head  was  liowed  down 
on  his  lireast ;  his  eyes  were  lixed  on  thi^ 
lloor;  and  he,  walked  with  a  slow  and  weary 
pace  out  of  the  room. 

"  It  was  the  threat  of  Sir  Lioiwd  Dud- 
loi{{h,"  thought  Edith,  "that  terrilied  him. 
He  knows  that  the  time  is  eomiiif;  when  he 
will  have  to  j^ivti  an  account :  and  he  fears 
Sir  Lionel  Dudleij^h  more  than  any  other 


CHAI'TEU  XXIL 

LITTI.r,    DlDLlCIGir. 

LiTTi.E  T)udleigh  now  came  to  the  Hall 
nearly  every  day,  and  devoted  himself  to 
Eilitli.  In  spite  of  his  devotion,  however, 
her  admiration  for  him  nc.  er  rose  to  a  very 
hijlh  jiitch.  There  was  soniethiiifi  ahout  the 
little  man  which  was  too  ])rim  and  precise 
— an  indescribahle  somethiiijj;  which  made 
her  feel  a  half  contemiit,  ajjaiiist  which  it 
was  ditliciilt  to  strujf^Ie  oven  by  keepiiifj  her 
mind  iixed  on  his  valuable  services.    His  lit- 


tle particular  ■wnvH  worn  more  approprjnto 
to  a  woman  than  to  a  man,  and  excited  her 
impatience.  Still  she  fell  that  he  must  liave 
plenty  of  c()ura;;e,  for  had  he  not  oll'ered  to 
risk  his  life,  and  had  he  not  come  armed  and 
l)re])ared  to  force  a  way  for  her  out  of  the 
park  1 

I'jlith,  like  all  f;eiierous  natures,  was  frank 
and  conlidiii;;.  She  was  warm-hearted,  im- 
pulsive,and  i|uick  to  show  ;;ratitnde.  After 
the  f ociety  of  t  he  .Mowbrays,  she  found  that  of 
LittCHiidleighan  im-xprcssiblt^  relief.  What 
struck  her  most  about  him  was  his  unvary- 
ing calmness.  He  must  have  some  jiersonal 
regard  for  lu'r,  shewas  sure,  for  on  what  oth- 
er grounds  would  In;  come  to  see  her  so  in- 
cessantly, and  spend  so  much  time  with  herf 
Y'et  he  never  showed  much  ol'  this  in  his 
manner.  He  fre(|ucntly  jiaid  compliments, 
and  alluded  to  his  willingness  to  do  any 
thing  to  serve  hci';  but  he  stddoin  indulged 
in  sentiment.  He  never  showed  any  ap- 
proach to  the  tenderness  of  love.  On  the 
wholt!  Edith  was  immensely  reli(!ved  at  this, 
for  the  little  man  was  one  whiuii  she  could 
cordially  apiireciate  as  a  disinterested  friend, 
but  whose  a]>pro,acli  toward  gallantry  or 
sentiment  would  have  been  repugnant  in 
the  extreme. 

Little  Dndleigh  certainly  exerted  all  his 
]iowers  to  make  himself  agreeable,  and  not 
without  success.  For  Edith,  who  was  nat- 
urally of  a  radiant  tenii»er,  w.is  now  in  high 
spirits  at  her  brightening  inospects,  and  it 
was  easy  to  amuse  her,  Dndleigh  had  in- 
iiuinerable  stories  to  tell  of  London  life,  and 
tlies(!  stories  referred  almost  exclusively  to 
the  theatre.  He  ajipeared  to  be  intimate- 
y  acquainted  with  all  thi^  "professional" 
world,  and  more  particularly  with  the  act- 
resses. His  stories  about  them  were  gener- 
ally of  a  light,  gossiping  character,  referring 
to  their  petty  failings,  jealousies,  and  weak- 
nesses, and  ,seeme<l  like  tht»  malicious  talcs 
which  actresses  tell  about  one  jinothcr. 
Still  nont!  of  them  were  at  all  unlit  for  a 
ady's  car,  and  in  all  of  them  there  was  .some 
absurdity  which  comiiensated  for  their  ma- 
liciousness. Little  Dndleigh  seemed  to  un- 
derstand most  thoroughly  the  female  nature, 
its  excellences  and  its  delects,  its  strellgill 
and  its  weaknesses.  In  his  anecdotes  abuut 
men  he  was  never  .so  successful.  His  I'amil- 
iarity  with  women's  ways  was  (|uite  remark- 
able, and  extended  even  to  the  smallest  do- 
tails  of  dress  •■ind  ornament.  His  whole 
manner  jint  Edith  singularly  at  her  ease,  and 
she  sometimes  c!iught  herself  siieaking  to 
i  him  almost  as  she  used  to  speak  to  her  fel- 
;  low  school-girls. 

Little  Dudleigh's  society  thusbecamequito 
I  agreeable,  and  Edith  looked  forward  each 
!  day  to  his  apjiearaiice  with  something  like 
i  impatience.  There  was,  after  all.  every  hmi- 
j  son  why  she  should  enjoy  it.  She  had  no 
I  other  associate,  and  this  oue  upou  whom  she 


, 


76 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


was  tlirown  oxortrd  nil  his  powers  for  tlio  | 
Holi^  |iin']i()Ni'  of  i>lciiHiii;;  Ikt. 

'MiiTf.  wiiH  very  lit  lie  (diiiiy  (liiiifl  liUo  cii- 
tliUNJiisiii  iilioiit  Liltl)'  I)iiilli'i;;li,  ami  in  this 
rcHiicct  lit'  ('itl'iTcd  very  widely  from  Kilith. 
Hhii  would  p)  info  raplnrcH  over  I'vcry  hfau- 
tifnl  Hct'Oi-.  A  111  illiant  nKv,  arich  landNcap)', 
a  ([uict  woodland  view,  all  served  to  excite 
her  adniii'in;^  eoninieiits.  Litile  Diidlei^li, 
however,  showed  no  siieli  feelinij;.  He  eon- 
fessed  himself  indilferent  to  natural  scenery, 
and  partial  only  to  city  life;  and  while  lie 
aekiiowledj{ed  the  lieanty  of  the  place,  he 
yet  declai'cti  that  lie  found  naire  to  admire 
ill  a  (lrawin<;-room  or  a  theatre.  | 

Meanwhile  the  little  )iian  had  not  honn 
Idlo.  On  his  lirst  visit  after  the  <'oiiversa- 
tioii  last  detailed  hi;  informed  Kdith  that  he 
hud  written  to  London,  niakin<;  ini|niries 
uhiiid  Sir  Lionel.  A  few  days  afterward  he 
showed  Kditli  a  letter  which  he  saitl  he  had 
i'eceive<l  from  Sir  l^ionel's  London  solicitors. 
The  writer  slateil  that  he  did  not  know 
whtiio  Sir  Lionel  was,  lint  that  he  woidd 
write  to  a  iirm  in  Marseilles,  who  were  his 
hankers  and  a^^ents.  The  opinion  of  the 
writer  was  that  tin;  liaronet  was  .somt'where 
aliont  I  he  Mediterranean.  This  intelli<;ence 
was  rather  distressin;;  to  JCditli,  hnt  sIk'  had 
tieeii  prepared  for  something;  of  the  kind;  ' 
and  as  Little  Dudleif^h  eiicoiirajjed  her,  and 
{lointed  <int  many  reasons  for  hojie,  she  took 
heart  and  hoped  for  the  liest.  j 

Accor<linj;  to  Little  Diidleij^h,  Sir  Jjionel 
was  always  traveliiij^.  Diirinjf  ten  or  twelve 
years  he  said  that  he  had  not  liecii  in  En- 
<;land  more  than  three,  or  four  times.  It 
was  on  on(!  of  the.so  occasions  that  he  had 
met  with  him,  anil  had  received  from  him 
certain  acts  of  kindnesH  which  made  him 
jfratefnl  to  his  lienefactor.  Sir  Lionel,  he  ^ 
said,  had  been  a  jjreat  traveler,  having  been 
fhrouijli  every  jiart  of  l^iirope  and  America, 
and  most  of  Asia.  He  was  constantly  rov- 
ing aliont  to  dill'erent  iilaees,  sometimes  liy 
laud,  at  other  times  in  his  own  yacht.  This, 
he  thonght,  must  be  the  reason  why  Edith 
had  never  heard  from  him.  Personally  he 
was  most  kind-hearted  and  generous,  and  if 
ho  only  knew  the  sitnation  in  which  she  was, 
he  would  tly  to  her  assistance. 

Little  Undleigh  also  alluded  in  a  general 
way  to  Sir  Lionel's  family  troubles.  The 
quarrel  with  his  wih  ,  lie  said,  hud  broken 
up  the  baronet's  lite,  and  made  him  a  wan- 
derer. }le  knew  nothing  about  the  cause, 
but  had  heard  that  J^ady  Dudleigh  had  been 
very  nuu'h  to  blame,  and  had  deserted  her 
husband  under  very  painful  eircum.stanccs. 
It  was  this  that  liad  made  the  unhappy 
husband  a  Avanderer.  Lady  Dudleigh,  ho 
thought,  had  died  years  ago. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things,  according  to 
Little  Dudleigh,  and  Ivlith  had  only  to  imiko 
up  her  mind  to  wait  until  something  more 
deliuitc  was  kuowu.      lu  tho  mean  time, 


however,  Little  Dmlleigh  had  not  been  un- 
mindful of  Miss  l'lymplon,liiit  wrote  a  letter 
to  her,  which  h<t  showed  to  Edith.  Kdilh 
also  wrote  one,  which  was  inclosed  in  his. 
Several  wet'ks  passed  away,  but  no  n^ply 
was  received,  and  this  silence  distressed 
Edith  greatly.  At  length,  when  she  had 
lost  all  hope  of  hearing  from  her  dear  friend, 
a  reply  came.  It  was  wiilten  from  Italy, 
and  ICditli  read  it  with  feelings  of  mingled 
ama;tement  and  anxiety. 

It  was  written  in  a  strange  hand,  and  in- 
formed Lieutenant  Diiillcigh  that  his  lettei' 
and  incliisiire  had  been  foiwarded  from 
riympton  Terrace,  where  it  had  been  lirst 
sent,  to  Miss  riympton's  picsent  abode  at 
Nice;  and  went  on  to  say  that  Miss  I'lymi)- 
ton  had  come  back  from  Dalton  care-worn 
by  anxiety  and  fatigue,  that  a  severe  illness 
had  been  the  result,  and  that  she  had  been 
sent  to  the  south  of  Krance.  The  writer 
stated  that  shi^  was  still  too  feelile  to  under- 
go any  excitement,  and  therefore  that  Lieu- 
tenant Dudleigh's  letter  and  ini'losure  had 
not  been  shown  her.  As  soon  as  Miss  I'lymp- 
ton's  health  would  admit  of  it  the  letters 
would  be  given  to  her.  It  was  uncertain 
how  long  she  would  remain  at  Nice.  They 
were  thinking  now  of  taking  her  to  (icrniany 
or  Switzerland.  The  school  had  been  broken 
up  for  tht^  jircsent.  This  letter  was  signetl 
by  ''Allele  Swinburne,"  who  said  that  she 
was  Miss  I'lynijiton's  "  attendant."  It  was  u 
name  that  Edith  had  never  heard  of  liefore. 
It  never  occurred  to  lulith  to  (ineslion  for 
one  moment  the  authenticity  of  this  letter. 
She  acceiitcd  it  all  as  truth,  and  was  tilled 
with  grief.  Miss  I'lympton,  then,  had  not 
been  forgetful.  She  had  done  Avhat  she 
could,  and  this  illness  was  the  residt.  It 
seemed  now  to  Ivlith  that  the  climax  of  her 
soirows  had  been  rciched  in  the  sullerings 
and  exiles  of  her  only  friend. 

"  And  now,  Mi.ss  Dalton,"  said  Little  Dud- 
leigh, after  a  long  silence,  in  which  ho 
had  watched  her  with  resiiectful  sympathy, 
"  Avhat  do  you  wish  to  do  f 

"  I'm  afraid  that  I  shall  have  to  rely  upon 
you  altogether,"  said  Edith. 
I      "  Yon  want  something  to  be  done  as  soon 
as  possible,  of  course." 

"  Of  course — nmst  earnestly." 
"You  see,  then,  that  both  Sir  Lionel  and 
Miss  Plymiiton  are  quite  out  of  our  reach. 
If  you  wish  for  deliverance  you  must  try 
something  else." 

"What  else  can  I  try  ?" 
"  Well,  the  law." 

"  The  law  f  Of  course,  that  is  just  what 
I  wish." 

"  It  is  tedious,  remember." 
"Oh,  if  I  can  only  make  a  beginning,  I 
can  wait.  It  isn't  my  life  here,  or  even  my 
imprisonment,  that  is  intolerable  so  much 
as  my  helplessness,  and  the  thought  that  I 
am  doing  nothing,  and  the  impunity  with 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


77 


which  tliis  wTftrhnrl  Wi^jKiim  rarricH  out  his 

])III'|H)SI>H.        It'    I    ('(lllltl    l>lll\     ktlOW    tllllt    till* 

iilViiir  wiiH  in  tin;  haii*U  of  li  lawyer,  I  Hiiould 
r.'cl  coiilciit." 

"  Yt's,  women  have  a  groat  faith  in  law- 
ycrn." 

"At  any  rato,  tlioro  inuNt  ho  Koiiirthing  in 
tho  hiw,  altlioiigli  it  is  often  liatllcd." 

"Tlicn*  oiij^lit  to  lie,  cerlaiiily ;  lint  of 
conrHO  you  iniist  lie  |ii'i'iiariMl  to  iiavc  your 
Huit  ri'sisfcd.  \Vi;j^iiis  will  also  have  law- 
yers, and  the  aliltst  ones  that  he  can  lind." 

"Tlieii  I  must  get  better  tines." 

"Of  eonrse." 

"And  immediately,  too,  witliont  waiting 
any  longer,"  saiil  Ivlitli,  im|iatieiitly. 

"Well,  I  will  get  yon  oiici  as  soon  as  pos- 
silile,  if  yon  say  so." 

"Lieutenant  Dndleigh,"  said  Ivlitli,  with 
dee]i  emol  ion,  "  yon  have  claims  on  my  grat- 
itmle  which  I  can  never  repay." 

"It  is  tlit^  haiipiest  monient  of  my  life," 
said  Little  Dinlleigh,  with  greater  anima- 
tiim  than  usual,  "since  I  liav(!  heard  you 
say  that.  Hut  don't  sjieak  of  giatiliide. 
Say,  at  the  most,  IViemlsliip.  If  yon  will 
only  accept  my  humlihs  services,  they  are 
all  yours,  and  my  life  too,  if  necessary." 

"Oh,"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile,  "there 
will  he  no  danger  to  your  life  now,  you 
know,  if  I  put  my  case  in  the  hands  of  law- 
yers." 

"  Well,  now.  talking  of  lawyers,"  said  Lit- 
tle Dndleigh,  "  since  yon  have  made  up  your 
mind  to  this,  it  will  lie  necessary  to  bo  very 
cautious  in  choosing  one." 

"  I  must  have  the  lii'st  counsel  in  England." 

"Certainly,  tor  Wiggins  will  lie  on  the 
alert.  With  him  (,'very  thing  is  at  stake. 
If  he  loses,  it  will  he  ahsolute  ruin.  In  the 
coiu'se  of  the  trial  his  whole  past  lifo  nnist 
como  up." 

"And  it  ought  to  como  iip,"  said  Edith, 
indignantly. 

"  We  must,  as  yon  say,  have  the  best  coun- 
sel in  England.  An  ordinai'y  man  might 
ruin  all.  You  must  get  the  best  lawyer  in 
London.  And  now  I  would  not  adviso  you 
to  choo.so  the  most  eminent  one  there,  f<ir 
fear  lest  the  ninltitiub*  of  his  engagements 
might  prevent  him  from  giving  to  your  case 
tho  attention  wliiidi  it  re<|nircs.  Yon  want 
some  one  who  will  give  his  whole  soul  to 
tho  case — some  shrewd,  deeji,  wily,  crafty 
man,  who  uiiderstamls  thoroughly  all  the 
ins  and  outs  of  law,  and  can  circumvent 
Wiggins  in  every  way." 

"  Hut  I  don't  like  these  wily  lawyons," 
said  Edith,  doubtfidly.  "  I  prefer  honorable 
men." 

"  Yes,  certainly,  as  friends,  no  doulit  you 
do ;  but  yon  aro  not  now  seeking  for  a  fricmd. 
You  aro  on  tho  look-out  for  a  servant,  or, 
rather,  for  one  who  can  tight  your  battle 
best,  and  deal  tho  best  and  surest  blows 
upon  Wiggins." 


"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Edith, 
doubtfully. 

"Now  I'll  tell  yon  what  I'll  do,  if  you'll 
conseiit,"  said  Little  Dndleigh.  "I'll  go  to 
London  and  ..eek  out  th-'  ri^lit  man  myself. 
There  is  m  use  in  writing  letters.  I  must 
go  ami  explain  the  thing  personally." 

"Lieutenant  Dndleigh."  said  Edith,  in 
deep  emotion,  "  I  do  not  know  what  to  say. 
Yon  really  overwhelm  me  with  kindnesses, 
I  can  oidy  say  that  you  have  earned  my  lift'- 
loiig  gratitude." 

Little  Dndleigh  shook  his  head  dciirecu- 
tingly. 

"Miss  Dalton,"  said  he,  in  a  tone  of  ro- 
sjieetful  devotion,  "thi^  favor  is  all  yours, 
and  the  pleasun-  is  all  mine.  Itelieve  me,  I 
feel  happy  beyond  exjircssion  at  being  able 
to  do  any  thing  for  yon.'' 

And  aftersiuiic  further  conversati<in,  Little 
Dndleigh  took  his  leave. 

"Mow  noble  and  generous  he  is!"  thought 
Edith,  as  she  watched  him  walk  down  the 
avenue.  "  Dear  Littlt^  Dndleigh,  what  a 
pity  it  is  that  he  is  not  a  few  inches  taller!" 


CIIAl'TEIJ  XXIIL 

Tilt:    .MAN    ^>V    LAW. 

Tin:  dejiarture  of  Dndleigh  left  Edith  to 
the  monotony  of  her  solitary  life.  If  Dinl- 
leigh had  desired  to  win  her  alfections,  he 
could  certainly  have  chosen  no  better  way 
<if  doing  so,  for  by  this  course  he  made  him- 
self greatly  missed,  and  caused  I'.dith  to 
count  the  days  in  her  impatience  for  his  re- 
turn. In  her  loneliness  she  coidd  not  help 
recalling  the  limirs  sh(>  had  passed  with  hei' 
agreeable  visitor,  and  thus  was  fon^'d  to 
give  him  a  large  jiortion  of  her  thoughts. 
His  connection  with  Sir  Lionel  scciikmI  of 
itself  a  recommendatimi  of  the  strongest 
kiixl,  and  all  that  he  had  <lom'  for  her,  and 
was  still  doing,  tilled  her  generous  sold  with 
gratitude. 

Thinking  thus  about  him,  she  recalK'-d  his 
whole  manner  and  a]i]iearance  The  worst 
that  could  lie  said  against  him  was  that  he 
was  eU'eminate.  Ibit  at  any  rati^  that  was 
better  than  being  liriital.  Otherwise  he  was 
fiank  and  engaging  and  clever  antl  gontle- 
nianly.  He  had  evidently  a  high  sense  of 
honor.  He  was  devoted  to  her.  From  the 
tirst  time  when  he  had  heard  her  story  down 
to  tho  jircsent  moment  lit!  had  mit  ceased  to 
think  for  her  and  to  work  for  her.  Even 
now  ho  had  gone  to  London  to  obtain  foi' 
her  what  ,slio  most  wanted — tho  assistanci; 
of  the  law. 

All  these  things  made  him  ajipoar  in  a 
more  favorable  light  than  ever.  She  recalled 
his  heroism  and  devotion.  She  considered 
that  he  had  done  as  nuich  as  if  he  had  laid 
down  his  lifo  for  her,  siuco  ho  had  oll'cred  to 


78 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


ti 


«lo  so,  and  had  only  horn  prevented  hy 
ln;r  prohibition.  Littli'  Diidlcif^li,  then,  hIio 
thonj^ht,  with  his  Klijjlit  frame  and  Hniall 
hundN,  had  more  real  manhood  tlian  a  hun- 
dred sneli  l)ij;  hrnte.s  an  Mowhray.  If  he 
is  not  a  true  man,  who  is  1  Conid  she  ever 
hope  attain  to  lind  so  devoted  a  friend  ?  Im- 
j>ossil)le.  lie  had  eonie  to  her  in  her  very 
darkest  hour ;  he  hail  i-aLfcrly  esiKiused  her 
cause,  and  had  devoted  Iiiinself  with  all  liis 
soul  to  her  interests.  What  more  could  she 
wish  than  this? 

For  several  wcM'lis  Dndleij^h  remained 
away,  and  Kdith  jjjcw  excessively  im])a- 
tient.  She  lieujan  to  fear  foi-  his  sjifety.  In 
li(>r  anxiety  she  sometimes  imaj;ined  that 
Wi<;K'"*<  niij;ht  liave  caused  somt^  harm  to 
fall  on  him  in  London.  Klie  recalled  all  the 
danfiers  of  the  London  streets,  of  which  she 
liad  :-ead  in  various  woi'ks  of  tietion,  and 
imagined  Wi^fijins  hirinji;  some  cut-throat  to 
follow  him,  .assassinate  him  at  the  first  o])- 
portunity,  and  throw  his  body  into  the  riv- 
er. Slie  ima<;im'd  tliat  some  rnftian.  hired 
of  course  by  Wiji^ins,  mijj;ht  tempt  him  to 
take  a  friendly  f^lass,  dru<;  his  licjinjr,  and 
tlien  dispose  of  his  victim  in  the  same  con- 
venient river.  Tlien  her  mood  chanjicd,  ami 
she  laufihed  at  the  al)snr<lity  of  sucii  fears, 
for  she  w'll  knew  tiiat  he  must  be  jierfectly 
familiar  .tith  London  lift;  and  the  London 
streets,  so  that  any  thin>f  of  this  kind  was 
nonsensical.  Tlien  she  thonjfht  that  peiha])s 
no  lawyer  would  undertake  her  case  w  ithoiit 
money  lieinjj;  ])aid  at  once.  In  fact,  all  the 
fears  tliat  could  \w  su^^jit'sted  by  an  uneasy 
mind  am!  a  very  vivid  imauination  came 
crowdinji  before  her  as  the  time  passed  by 
and  I)udleij;h  did  not  return. 

Ihi*^  at  last  .all  her  fears  came  to  an  end. 
One  morniujr,  at  the  usual  hour,  she  saw  his 
well-known  tiirure  aiiiiioachinj;  the  house. 
In  her  e.airer  joy  she  hurried  at  once  down 
stairs,  and  could  scarcely  ])reveut  herself 
from  rnnninjf  down  the  avenue  to  meet  him. 
It  was  with  dillieulty  that  sin;  controlled 
herself,  a  il  waited  for  him  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

Li'tle  Dudleiuh  entered  with  liis  usual 
calmness  and  self-^iossession.  Kdith  greeted 
him  with  the  warmest  welcome. 

"  ]}ut  you  come  alone."  said  she.  in  a  tone 
of  disa]ii)ointment.  "  You  have  not  been 
successful."' 

"  In  one;  sense,"  said  he,  "  I  have  l)een 
most  success("ui.  for  I  ''ave  found  the  ver> 
man  I  wanted.  I  had  to  wait  for  Iiim.  tliongli. 
He  was  in  Lyons  when  I  reached  l/ondoii,  and 
I  went  over  for  him  and  brought  him  here."' 

"  Lyons!"  exclaimed  Kdith.  '•  Why,  that's 
in  France.  Did  von  really  go  over  to 
France  f ' 

"  Why  not  ?"  said  Dudleigh,  calmly.  "  I 
HCt  forih  on  a  eertair  ])nrpose,  and  I  iii  ".'ot 
in  the  habit  of  giving  up  what  1  undertake 
to  ilo.     Besides,  you  forget  for  whom  that 


I  ImsincsH  was  nndertaken,  and  the  impulse 
that  drovt!  me  forward." 

Edith  looked  at  the  floor  and  said  nothing. 
She  felt  under  such  obligations  to  him  that 
sh(»  hardly  knew  what  to  say. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  lironght  the;  lawyer 

liere  at  once,"  he  continued,  "but  ilid  not. 

He  is  now  in  this  neighborhood,  however. 

The  reason  why  I  did   not   bring  him  now 

was  ])ecans(!  I  wished  lirst  to  set;  AN'iggins 

myself.     Ho  must  l)e  prejjared,  or  lus  may 

I  make  trouble.     I  wish  to  frighten  him  into 

;  allowing  him  to  ))ass.    I  shall  have  to  make 

up  some  jdausible  story,  however,  to  account 

f(U'  his  visiting  you.    I  have  not  yet  decided 

<1n  what  it  shall  be.     I  think,  however,  that 

the  lawyer  had  better  come  here  aloiu'.    You 

will,  of  course,  know  that  li(^  is  to  be  trusted. 

I  You  may  say  to  him,  in  fact,  whatever  you 

like." 

i       "  Hut  wouldn't  it  be  better  for  you  to  be 
:  ]>resent  also?"  said  Edith.     "  I  may  reipiire 
your  advice." 

"Thank  you,  Hiss  Dalton.     I  .assure  you 
I  value  most  highly  every  exi)ression  of  your 
eonfidcniee.     Ihit  I  tliink  it  will  be  better 
I  for  you  to  see  him  alone.     He  will  give  you 
his  card.     His  nanu!  is  J5arbei\     If  I  were  to 
I  come  w  ifh  him,  Wiggins  might  suspect.    At 
the  sauK^  time,  I  don't  know,  after  all,  but 
I  that  I  may  change  my  mind  anil  come  with 
him.     lint  in  any  eas(^  yini  may  talk  to  him 
freely.     He  has  not  beim  idle,  for  he  has  al- 
ready mastered  your  whoh;  situation.     Yon 
may  trust  him  Just  as  much  as  yon  trust  me. 
'  You  may,  in  fact,  regiird  him  the  same  as 
me." 

"  And  he  will  be  hero  to-morrow  ?"  said 
Edith. 
"  Yes." 

"  I  know  you  hate  ex]>ressions  of  gr.ati- 

tude,"  said  l",ditli,  after  a  ])ause  ;  "  but  I  can 

only  say  that  my  ow"  <'ratitn(lt!  -s  beyond 

expression.     You  ha\  en  me  hope — " 

I      "Say  nothing  about  it,"  said  DiuUeigh, 

'interrupting  her.     "That  will  bo  the  best 

i  thaidis,  though  really  I  have  done  nothing 

I  to  merit  thanks.     Duty  and  honor  both  im- 

])elled  me  to  serve  you,  without  mentioning 

— any — a — deeper  and  stronger  feeling." 

Edith  again  looked  at  the  floor.    She  sus- 
pected the  exif-tence  of  this  stronger  feeling, 
and  did  not  altogether  like  to  thiidc  of  il. 
H(!r  own  feelings  toward  him  were  singularly 
coed,  and  she  did  not  wish  him  to  be  other- 
wise.    His   general   cahuuess  of  denieanof 
was  very  pleasant  to  her.  and  his  occasional 
allusions  to  any  deejx'r  sentiment  than  com- 
mon, few  though  they  Avere,  troubled  lior 
greatly.     What  if  he  should  seek  as  his  re- 
ward that  which  he;  surely  had  a  right  to 
hope  for — her  '  ind  ?     Coidd   she  give   it.' 
i  On  the  other  hand,  could  slie  have  the  heart 
I  to  refuse  it  f    The  ulternative  was  not  pleas- 
;  ant. 
I      On  the  following  day,  while  Edith  was 


J^^ 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


79 


was 


waitiii};  in  f^n^iii  impatience,  a  stranger  came 
to  tlio  Hall  to  call  upon  her. 

Till!  Htrun^cr  was  a  sniall-sizcd  niaii,  with 
round  fshould'T.s,  j;ray  liair,  buMliy  eyebrows, 
and  sallow  skin.  JIo  wore  sjteei.iv'los,  his 
clothes  were  of  f;oo(l  material,  hut  rather 
loose  lit,  betokenin;;  one  who  was  indili'erent 
to  dress.  His  hoots  wen;  loose,  his  j^loves 
also,  and  an  unil)r<'lla  which  ho  carried,  Ix;- 
inj;  without  a  hand,  had  a  ba<;,u;y  a))i>ear- 
ance,  which  was  (piito  in  keci)iiij;  with  the 
y;(!neral  stylt!  of  this  man's  costtiuic.  He 
looked  to  Edith  so  much  likts  a  lawyer  that 
she  could  not  help  wonderin<^  at  the  com- 
jileteness  with  which  one's  prol'essiou stamps 
itself  U])on  the  exterior. 

"I  am  sent,"  said  the  stran<j;er,  after  a 
In-ief,  stilf  salutation,  "by  Lieutenant  Dud- 
leij:;h,  to  comnumicate  with  you  about  your 
present  jjosition.  I  take  it  for  jfranted  that 
wo  shall  not  bo  overheard,  and  jiniposo  to 
carry  on  this  conversation  in  as  low  a  tone 
as  ])ossiljle." 

Sayini^  this,  the  stranjfcr  to(dc  a  (piiek, 
sharp  {^lanco  throuj;li  his  spectacles  around 
the  room. 

His  voice  was  dry  and  thin,  his  manner 
abrupt  and  stilf  and  business-like.  Kvi- 
dently  ho  was  a  dried-ii))  lawyer,  wliosti 
whole  life  had  iiceu  itassed  anionjj;  parch- 
miMits. 

Edith  assured  him  that  from  wliere  they 
were  sittinjj;  they  could  not  bo  overheard  if 
they  spoke  in  a  moderutely  low  voice.  This 
a))peared  to  satisfy  the  stranj^er,  and  after 
another  survey  of  the  room,  lie  dniw  forth 
from  his  breast  pocket  a  wallet  tilled  with 
pajiers  —  a  well-worn,  fat,  business-like, 
wallet  —  and  takiufi  from  this  a  card,  he 
rose  stilily  and  held  this  toward  Edith.  8he 
toidv  it,  and  glancing  over  it  read  the  ad- 
dress : 

II  E  \  11  Y    B  A  U  li  E  R, 

soi.iorroii, 

Inner  Tcnipk',  London. 

EtUth  bowed.  "  Lieutenant  Hudleigh  told 
:iie  your  name,"  said  slu!. 

"And  now,"  said  ht>,  "let  us  jiroceed  to 
business,  for  my  time  is  limited. 

"  ]>ieiitenaiit  Dudlcigh,"  \\t\  benan,  "has 
already  explained  to  me,  in  a  general  way, 
the  state  of  your  alfairs.  He  t'oiuid  me  at 
Lyons,  where  I  was  engaged  in  some  iniiior- 
tant  business,  and  ina.de  me  come  to  ]>ngland 
at  once.  He  directe(l  tw  verbally,  though 
not  formally  or  in  jiroper  order,  to  investigate 
as  nimdi  as  1  could  aliout  your  allairs  liet'ore 
coming  here,  and  reipiested  me  to  '  insider 
myselt  as  your  solicitor.  That,  I  suppose,  is 
ipiite  correct,  is  it  not?" 

"It  is,"  said  Edith. 

"Under  these  circunistiinces,"  continued 
ISarber,  "  I  at  once  went  to  tin;  proper  (piai- 
ter,  and  investigated  the  will  of  your  late 
father;  for  yoiu'  wliolt!  position,  as  yon  mast 
bo  uware,  depends  upou  that.     Of  course  no 


will  cjvn  deprive  you  of  your  lawful  iulierit- 
anco  in  real  estate,  which  the  law  of  the 
country  sc(;ures  to  you  and  yours  fon^ver  ; 
but  yet  it  may  surround  you  with  certain 
restrictions  more  or  less  liinding.  Now  it 
was  my  object  to  see  about  the  nature  of 
these  restrictions,  and  so  uudcrstai:  1  your 
peculiar  position." 

Here  15arber  jiaiised,  and  taking  out  his 
wallet,  drew  from  it  a  slij)  of  jiajier  on  which 
he  had  ])encile(l  some  memoranda. 

"In  the  multiplicity  of  my  legal  cares, 
Miss  Halton,"  \n:  continued,  "I  lind  it  nec- 
essary to  jot  down  notes  with  reference  to 
each  individual  ease.  It  pn^vents  confu- 
sion and  saves  time,  both  of  which  an,-,  to 
a  lawyer,  cousideratious  of  the  utmost  mo- 
ment. 

"And  now,  with  reference  to  your  case, 
first  of  all,  the  will  and  the  business  of  the 
guardianship — let  us  see  about  that.  Ac- 
cording to  this  will,  you,  the  heir,  are  left 
under  the  care  of  two  guardians  for  a  cer- 
tain time.  Oneof  these  guanlians  is  on  tin; 
spot.  The  other  is  not.  Each  of  these  men 
hi'.s  equal  powers.  Each  one  of  these  is 
trustee  for  yon,  and  guardian  of  you.  But 
one  has  no  )iower  superior  to  the  other. 
'I'liis  is  what  the  wili  distinctly  lays  down. 
Of  course.  Miss  Dalton,  you  will  perceive 
that  the  first  necessary  tiling  is  to  know 
this.  What  are  the  powers  of  a  gnardian  1 
Is  it  notf" 

Edith  bowed.  Thi;  mention  of  two  guard- 
ians had  tilled  her  with  eager  cMiiosity, 
but  she  repressed  this  feeling  for  the  ]ires- 
ent,  so  as  not  to  interrujit  tin;  lawyer  in  his 
speech. 

j  "What,  then,  are  the  powers  of  a  giiard- 
!  iau?  To  express  this  in  the  simplest  way, 
j  so  that  you  can  understand  those  powers 
I  jierfcctly,  a  guardi;in  stands,  as  the  law  liJi.-i 
it,  (»i  Inn)  pdniilix — which  me;ins  that  he  is 
the  s.'ime  ;is  a  father.  TIk^  fatliiT  dies;  he 
per]petuates  his  authority  by  handing  it 
over  to  another.  He  is  not  dead,  then.  The 
mtiii  dies,  Imt  the  father  lives  in  tlu^  person 
of  the  guardian  wliiun  he  may  have  aiijioiut- 
ed.  Such,"  said  Mr.  Barber,  with  indescrib- 
able enqiliasis  -"such,  Miss  Dallon,  i,  the 
LAW.  You  must  know,"  he  continued,  "  that 
the  law  is  vtU'y  explicit  on  the  sul)ject  of 
guardianshi]).  Once  make  a  man  a  guard- 
ian and,  as  I  have  remarked,  he  forthwith 
stands  in  loco  imrrnli-i,  ;ind  the  ward  is  his 
<hild  in  the  ej-e  of  the  LAW.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

I      "  Yes,"  said  Edith,  in  a  desjio  dent  tone. 

She  felt  disapiiointment  ■•ind  discimiageuieMl 

I  at  hearing  all  this,  and  could  ,/nly  lio[)(^  tliai^ 

there  would  lie  something  yet  which  would 

open  better  ]iros])ects, 

"Such,  then,  are  tlie  powers  of  a  gnard- 
ian," continued  IJaiber.  "They  are  ver>' 
strong,  and  that  will,  l>y  giving  yi  guard- 
ians, has  tied  you  np." 


80 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


'I' 


"But  I  am  of  aso,"  fi!ii<l  Edith,  meekly. 

Barber  waved  lii.s  hand  sli^^htly.  "  Tliat," 
said  lie,  "  is  a  jjoiiit  which  I  HJiall  eousid- 
cr  prcHently.  JiiKt  now  I  will  say  this — 
that  the  fraiiier  of  that  will  considered  all 
these  ])oints,  and  arran<;ed  that  the  j;nard- 
ianslii])  should  continue  until  such  tiini^  as 
you  inifilit  olitiiin  anotiicr  f^uardian  of  an- 
other kind,  liefore  whom  all  others  uie  i)ow- 
••rless." 

"But  who  arc  my  <j;uardians?"  asked 
lOditli,  in  {^reat  excitement,  unable  any  lon- 
<;cr  to  repress  her  curiosity.  "One  is  Wig- 
f;ins,  I  know.     Who  is  the  other?"' 

"  One,"  said  ]{arber,  "  is,  as  yon  s;iy,  John 
Wiji'Kins;  the  other  is  Sir  Lioiud  J>iulleijj;li." 

"(-■;r  J.ioncl  l)iidlciy;li!"  exelaimeil  Editli, 
while  a  feeling' ol  i)rol'ound  satisfaction  came 
to  her.     "  Oil,  how  }j;lad  I  am  !" 

"  It  is  indeed  a  f^ood  thiiij;  that  it  is  so," 
said  Barlter;  ''  but,  unfortunalt'ly,  he  can  not 
at  jiresent  be  of  service.  For  wliere  is  he? 
He  is  in  jiarts  unknown.  He  is  out  of  the 
•  •ounliy.  He  is,  for  the  present,  the  same  as 
1houj;h  he  were  dead.  It  is  not  jiroliable 
that  he  has  hc^ard  of  your  father's  death,  or 
of  the  existence  of  this  will,  unless,  indeed, 
Mr.  \\'i<j;f;inH  has  taken  the  troubles  lo  find 
out  whi're  he  is,  an<l  send  him  th(>  informa- 
tion. That,  howi!ver,  is  not  likely.  How, 
then,  is  it  with  you?  You  have,  in  ])oint 
of  fact,  at  th('  Jiresent  tinu;  virtiuiUy  but  one 
tiiKifdidii.  He  is  hero  on  the  spot.  Ho  is 
exert iiij;  liis  authority,  and  you  assert,  I 
think,  that  he  sulijects  yoa  to  a  sort  of  ini- 
juisonnient.  Miss  Dalton,  he  has  a  right  to 
do  this." 

Saving  this,  Barber  was  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  lo(dved  at  J'.dith,  and  then  at  the 
lloor.  On  the  other  hand,  she  looked  stead- 
fastly at  him;  but  her  hand  trembled,  and 
an  exiiicssion  of  utter  hopelessness  came 
over  her  face. 

"Is  that  all  that  you  have  to  ti'll  mo?" 
tihe  said  at  last,  in  a  des]iairing  voice. 

"  Certainly  not.  Miss  l)alt(Ui,"  said  Barber 
— "  certainly  not.  I  have  much  more  to  say. 
But  iirst  it  was  necessary  to  exjilain  y(Mir 
])osition,  and  lay  down  the  i.avv.  There  is 
only  one  reason  why  you  sent  for  me.  and 
why  I  came.  You  wish,  by  some  means  or 
other,  to  get  free  from  the  control  of  this 
guardian,  .John  ^Viggins." 

"Yes,"  sai<l  Kdii  h.  earnestly. 

"Very  well,"  said  Barber.  "I  know  .all 
about  that.  I  have  l)een  iuformeil  by  Lieu- 
tenant l)udh>igh.  You  wish  in  some  way  or 
odier  to  gitin  yoiu"  freedom.  Now  in  ordi>r 
to  do  this  tin  re  ar(>  two  ditl'erent  ways.  Miss 
Dalton,  and  only  two.  The  first  is  to  find 
your  otlier  guardian,  ami  obtain  his  assist- 
iinee.  AVho  is  he?  Sir  Lionel  Dudleigh. 
Where  is  he  ?  No  one  knows.  What  tlien  ? 
He  nuist  be  foniul.  You  nuist  semi  out  emis- 
saries, messengers,  detectives,  in  sluirl  ;  you 
must  semi  off  some  one  who  will  find  Jiim 


Avherever  lie,  is,  and  make  him  acquainted 
with  your  position.  But  sujipose  that  yon 
can  not  find  him,  or  that  he  is  indifferent  to 
your  intenists — a  thing  which  is  certainly 
l)ossible— what  then  ?  What  are  you  to  do  ? 
You  are  then  under  the  control  of  John  Wig- 
gins, your  renniining  guardian  ;  and  it  re- 
mains to  be  seen  whether,  ])y  tin;  jirovisions 
of  tli(,'  will,  there  is  any  other  way  in  which 
you  may  eseajie  from  that  control.  Now  tli<^ 
will  has  madi!  provisi<nis,  and  liore  is  the 
other  of  those  two  ways  of  escape  of  vvhieh 
I  spoke.  This  is  nuirriage.  If  you  were,  to 
marry,  that  moment  ycni  would  lie  fre(!  from 
the  control  of  John  Wiggins;  and  not  only 
so,  but  he  would  at  once  be  eomptdled  to  «iuit 
tin;  ])remises,  and  hand  in  his  accounts.  Of 
eonise  his  objvct  is  to  ]irevent  any  thing  of 
that  kind,  which  would  be  so  ruinous  to  Iiim, 
and  therefore  he  will  keep  yon  shut  nj),  if 
jiossilile,  as  long  as  hi;  lives;  but  if  you 
should  adopt  this  way  of  escape.  Miss  Dal- 
ton, yon  would  turn  the  tables  at  once;  and 
if,  as  I  have  understood  is  the  case,  he  has 
made  any  misapiiropriatioiis  of  money,  or 
defalcations  of  any  kind,  lie  will  be  bound  to 
make  tlieni  good,  to  the  uttermost  farthing. 
Such,  Miss  Dalton,  is  the  i.AW." 

"And  I  have  no  lietlei'  ]irospect  than 
this?"  exclaimed  Edith,  in  deei)  dejection. 

"Those,  Miss  Dalton,  arc  the  only  two 
conrs(>s  jiossilde." 

"And  if  Sir  Lionel  can  not  be  found  ?" 

"Tlien  you  will  have  to  fall  back  on  the 
other  alternative." 

"But  that  is  out  of  the  (lucstion." 

"Such,  imfortunately,  are  the  only  pro- 
\  jsicuis  of  the  will." 

"Then  there  is  no  hope,"  sighed  Edith. 

"Ho])e?  Oh  yes!  There  is  plenty  of 
hojie.  In  the  first  place,  I  would  urge  you 
to  lose  no  time  in  searching  after  vour  un- 
cle." 

"  I  shall  do  so.     AVill  yon  see  to  it  ?" 

"I  will  do  all  that  I  cii  i.  You  wish  me. 
of  coiu'se,  to  act  in  connection  with  Lieuteu- 
ant  Dudleigh." 

"  Of  course." 

"I  will  begin  at  once.  And  now  I  must 
go." 

The  lawyer  put  his  memoranda  back  in 
the  wall(>t,  restoring  the  latter  to  his  pocket, 
and  fook  his  hat. 

"But  nmst  I  remain  a  prisoner  here?" 
cried  I'.dith.  "  Is  thei'c  no  law  to  free  me — 
none  whatevei'?  After  all,  I  am  a,  British 
subject,  and  I  have  always  understood  that 
in  l-jigland  no  cme  can  be  imprisoned  with- 
o;t  a  trial." 

"  You  are  a  w.ard.  Miss  Dalton.  and  guard- 
ians can  control  t4n'ir  wards,  as  parents  con 
trol  chil.lreii." 

"  But  i>a rents  can  not  control  children  who 
are  of  age." 

"A  ward  is  under  age  till  the  tinn^  speci- 
lii'd  in  the  legal  instrument  that  appoints 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


81 


iMi  who 

lo  s])Ot'i- 
lliptiiutfi 


"SL'CH,    MISS    DAI.TON,    IS    THK    1-AW!' 


the  {;tiiir(li,an.  You,  uiit  il  marriage,  arc  what 
the,  law  calls  an  'infant.'  Hut  <lo  not  bo 
(lisconraj^ed,  Miss  Dalton.  We  will  hunt  up 
Sir  Lionel,  and  if  he  can  he  found  wo  will 
l)rin<,'  liini  hack  to  England." 

Saying  this,  in  the  same  dry,  I)usiness-liko 
tone  t  hat  he,  had  used  all  along,  Barber  bow- 
ed himself  out. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

NKW    OHLIOATIONS. 

That  interview  with  the  lawyer  left  Edith 
in  a  state  of  the  deepest  dejection.  She  had 
certainly  not  anticipated  any  thing  likt^  this, 
."^lie  (expected  that  measures  would  ;it  once 
lie  taken  to  carry  on  a  contest  with  Wiggins, 
and  give  her  her  lawful  rights,  and  aliove  all 
li?r  freedom.  It  nevt'r  for  a  moment  entered 
her  mind  to  (piestion  the  truth  of  a  siijgle 
statement  that  liarber  had  made.  His  wlu)l(! 
comnmnicatiou  with  her  was  of  the  mo."t 
liusincss-like  character,  as  it  .seemed  to  her, 
and  she  thought  he  must  be  eminent  in  his 
jirofessiou,  (U-  else  Dudlcigh  woiihl  not  have 
employed  him.  And  this  was  th(!  end  of  all 
that  hope  in  which  slie  had  been  indulging! 
Her  freedom  now  seemed  farth(>r  removed 
ihan  (^ver.  How  could  Sir  Lionel  ever  be 
found?  According  to  Undlcigli,  he  lived 
the  lile  of  a  wanderer,  and  left  no  trace 
behind  him.  Il  was  haril  for  her  to  tliink 
that  her  only  hope  deiiendcd  upon  timling 
liiin. 

V 


On  tlio  following  day  Dudlcigh  came, 
looking  as  ealm  and  as  unrullled  as  usual. 

"Harber  has  gone  back,"  said  he.  "I 
k/i(>w  before  what  he  was  going  to  tell  von. 
I  had  not  the  lieart  to  tell  you  myself,  or 
ev(!n  to  1)0  here  when  he  was  telling  you." 

"  It  might  have  saved  mo  sonio  disappoint- 
ment il'i/«M  had  told  iiu\" 

"  Ihit  the(lisap]iointment  would  have  been 
as  great,  ami  I  had  not  the  heart  to  inillct 
sorrow  myself  ujion  you  !  I  luiow,  after  IJar- 
ber  had  explained  it  to  me,  how  1  felt  ;  and  I 
can  t'orm  some  idea  of  tho  nature  of  your 
feelings." 

"So  tliere  is  nothing  to  be  done,"  said 
Edith,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I'ardon  me,  there  is  very  much  inileed  to 
lie  done,  though  whether  it  will  result  in 
anv  thing  remains  to  be  seen." 

"What  can  J  do?" 

"  Do?     Whv,  as  Barber  said,  hunt  up  Sir 
Lionel." 
!       "  I'll  never  find  him." 
j       "  Yes,  vou  can," 
i      "How"?" 

i       "By  searching,  of  course.     And  that  is 
wliat  I  have  come  about  now." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  any  thing  new  ?" 

"Xo,  nothing.  I  merely  came  to  make  a 
proposal." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Edith,  languidly  ;  for 
now  Ihi're  seemed  no  chance  for  any  t  liing. 

"It  is  this,"  said  Dniileigii.  "I  pioposu, 
if  you  will  allow  me,  to  go  myself." 

"  You  I"exebuuiod  Edith,  in  great  surprise. 


'.i 


82 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"  Yoa." 

"  Hut  can  you  obtain  loavo  to  go  f  You 
will  have  to  g"  aliioad,  won't  you  !" 

"  Y»'s,  of  course." 

"  Hut  can  j-ou  leave  your  re<i;iment  ?" 

"Oh  yes.  I  can  fj;(>t  leave  of  ali.seuee  for 
as  loufx  a  time  as  will  l)e  nee(le<l  for  that,  I 
think,  without  difficulty.  In  fa(-t,  before 
leaviuf?  London,  as  soon  as  I  heard  Barlmr's 
opinion,  I  put  in  my  recjuest  at  once  for  two 
months'  leave,  and  I  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  they  will  allow  it.  I  have  one 
or  tw('  influential  friends,  you  know." 

"And  will  you  really  K"^'  asked  Edith,  in 
toiu\s  of  dee|)  feeliuff,  with  all  her  gratitude 
evident  in  her  tcnie  and  expression. 

"  Y(f8,  if  you  will  allow  inc." 

"I? — allow  you?  I  am  only  too  glad  to 
have  a  friend  who  is  willing  to  und(;rtake 
such  a  thing  for  me  in  my  distress." 

"There  is  nothing.  Miss  Dalton,  which  I 
would  not  undertake  for  yon." 

"Von  are  overwhelming  nu)  with  obliga- 
tions," said  Edith.  "  What  you  have  already 
done  is  more  than  I  can  ever  repay." 

"  Do  not  Hi)eak  of  obligations,"  said  Dnd- 
leigh,  earnestly.  "My  best  reward  is  the 
thought  tiiat  I  may  have  given  you  even  a 
temporary  relic^f." 

"Von  have  given  me  much  happiness," 
said  Edith,  earnestly;  "and  if  it  i)r()ves  to 
be  only  temporary  it  will  not  he  your  fault. 
You  overwhelm  me  with  a  sense  of  obliga- 
tion." 

"Now  really,  Miss  Dalton,  if  yon  talk  in 
that  way,  you  will  mak(!  me  feel  ashamed. 
.\fter  all,  what  have  1  (bine  1  Nothing  more 
than  any  gentleman  would  do.  Hut  do  not 
say  a  word  about  it  again.  Let  it  be  taken 
for  granted  that  I  do  this  from  a  selfish  mo- 
live— simply  to  i)l<!ase  mysc^lf,  you  kiiow ; 
simply  because  I  love — to  do  it." 

Dudleigh  spoke  in  his  usual  quiet  way, 
without  any  jiarticular  ardor,  although  once 
or  twice  his  voice  grew  uu)re  earnest  than 
usual.  Edith  said  nothing.  She  fidt  a  lit- 
tle emljarrassed,  but  the  self-possession  of 
Dudley  was  ])erfeet;  he  hinted  strongly  at 
l(»ve,  \jiit  seemed  not  at  all  like  an  anient 
lover.  He  hxdied  and  acted  simi)ly  like  a 
friend;  and  as  Edith  needed  a  iVii^nd  above 
all  things,  she  was  glad  to  accept  his  serv- 
ices. 

"My  present  plan,"  said  he,  "can  bo  easi- 
ly explained.  Sir  Lionel  seems  to  be  some- 
where about  the  Mediterranean.  Any  letters 
that  are  sent  to  him  have  to  be  din>eted  to 
Messrs.  Chatellon,  Comeanx,  and  Co.,  Mar- 
seilles, who  forward  them  to  him.  I  have 
already  written  to  these  gentlemen,  asking 
where  he  is;  but  when  they  sent  their  reply 
they  did  not  know.  They  stated,  however, 
that  on  hearing  from  him  they  would  let  me 
know.  Hut  to  wait  i'or  an  answer  fnun  these 
gentlemen  would  be  too  great  a  trial  for  your 
patience.     You  can  not  be  satisfied,  nor  co'>ld 


I,  unless  something  is  being  done.  It  would 
simply  kill  you  to  wait  here,  day  afler  day, 
week  after  week,  month  after  month,  for  let- 
ters that  would  iu;ver  come.  Nothing  is  so 
terrible.  You  must  send  sonui  one.  Now  I 
think  that  the  best  one  you  can  send  is  my- 
self, and  I  hope  I  speak  without  vanity.  No 
mere  hiri'ling  can  go  on  this  service.  The 
one  who  gol^s  should  have  different  motives, 
and  for  my  i)art  I  should  fetd  thi".  search  to 
have  a  personal  interest,  and  should  work 
for  yini  as  I  would  for  myself." 

"Oh,  Lieutenant  Dudleigh,"  said  Edith. 
"  there  is  no  need  for  nu)  to  say  how  I  should 
feel  about  a  search  made  by  yon.  I  refrain 
from  expr(!ssions  of  gratitude,  since  you  for- 
bid them  ;  and  so  I  do  not  know  what  to 
say." 

"Say  nothing,  then,  and — I  do  not  like 
to  say  it,  but  I  must — hope  for  nothing.  If 
you  hope,  you  nuiy  b(^  disappointeel.  If  you 
do  Tiot  ho])e,  you  can  not  be.  Hut  in  any 
ease,  whether  you  ai'e  disai>pointed  or  not, 
renuMubcr  this — that  in  si)ite  of  these  musty 
lawyers,  if  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst  you 
have  one  steadfast  friiMid,  and  that  if  you 
say  the  word  I  will  force  a  way  for  you 
through  those  gates.  If  yon  ever  fticl  dis- 
couraged, renujmber  that.  It  is  a  great  pre- 
ventive against  despair  to  know  that  you 
have  an  alternative  of  soiiu;  kind.  And  now 
I  will  take  my  d<!partnre,  for  the  train  will 
leave  soon,  and  I  must  go  at  once." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE   SOURCES  OF  THE   NILE. 

At  length,  after  an  absence,  of  four  or  five 
weeks,  Dudleigh  returned.  Edith  had  tried 
hard  not  to  hojje,  so  as  to  bo  i)rei)ared  for  a 
disappointnuMit ;  but  after  all,  in  spite  of  lu'r 
effoits,  she  could  not  ludp  hoping.  Slit;  ]iut 
gre.at  confidence  in  Dudleigh's  energy  and 
perseverance,  and  thought  that  he  would  be 
able  not  only  to  find  out  when;  Sir  Lionel 
might  be,  but  even  to  see  him.  and  make 
him  acquainted  with  her  situation.  He  had 
already  done  so  much  for  her  that  it  seemed 
quite  possibhs  for  him  to  do  this.  As  the 
days  ])ass(;d  by  she  found  herself  looking 
forward  to  his  return  a:,  the  time  of  h  'V  cer- 
tain deliverance,  until  id  length  hope  grew 
into  confidence,  and  the  idea  of  (iisapi)oint- 
ment  was  completely  driven  away. 

At  last  he  came,  and  his  first  ajjiiearance 
put  to  flight  all  her  ho])es,  and  filled  hei' 
with  a  nameless  terror.  lie  looked  dejected 
and  weary.  He  asked  after  her  health,  and 
whether  she  h.-id  been  in  any  way  molested  : 
after  which  Edith  entreated  him  to  tell  her 
the  worst. 

"  For  you  bring  bad  innvs,"  said  she— -"I 
se('  it  in  your  face.    Tell  me  the  worst." 

Dudleigh  mournfully  shook  hi'i  head. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


83 


"  Yon  bave  not  found  bini,  tlioii  f"  I 

"  No."  I 

"  Hilt  yon  niiiHt  have  lioanl  sonictliinj; 
iiboiit    him.      He   is   ut    louHt   ulive,    is   he , 

not  r  j 

"  I  don't  know  even  that."  ! 

"  What !  has  any  tliinj;  hapjtened  to  him  ?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of.  IJiit  lie  has  wtarted 
(inahmgand  iierihjusexeursion  ;  and  wlietli- 
<  r  he  will  ever  return  or  not  is  more  than  I 
can  .s:iy."  i 

"Then  there  is  no  hope,"  said  Edith,  in  a  | 
voice  of  despair.  j 

Dndlei>;h  was  silent  for  a  time.  j 

"  I  will  tell  yon  all,"  he  replied  at  length. 
"When  I  left  you  I  went  at  onct!  to  Mar-' 
sfilles.  I  called  on  Sir  Lionel's  afjents  there, 
hut  found  that  they  had  heard  no1hin<;-  from 
him  whatever.  They  said  that  when  he  last 
left  tliat  city  he  had  gone  to  Turkey.  I  then 
set  off  for  Constantinople,  and  spent  a  week 
there,  tryinji;  to  find  some  traces  of  him.  At 
the-  15ritish  Embassy  they  said  that  he  had 
only  rtMnained  uiw  day  in  the  city,  anil  had 
theuf^oneiu  his  yacht,  which  he  had  bron;;ht 
with  him,  on  a  cruise  in  the  IMaek  Sea.  lint 
whether  he  had  returned  or  not  ikj  one  knew,  j 
At  last  I  met  with  a  merchant  who  knew 
him,  and  he  told  me  that  h(^  had  returned 
aiul  fjone  to  Athens.  I  went  to  Athens,  and 
found  that  he  had  Ixh'u  there  at  one  of  the 
hotels,  the  landlord  of  which  informed  me 
that  he  had  spent  three  days  there  and  had 
left  for  parts  unknown.  I  left  letters  at  each 
of  these  places,  and  sent  others  to  Smyrna,  i 
IJeyrout,  Jaffa,  and  Ah'xandria.  Then  I  re- 
turned to  Marseilh^s.  There,  to  my  surprise,  ' 
1  learned  that,  a  few  days  after  1  left,  they  ■ 
had  heard  from  Sir  Lionel,  who  was  in  Alex- 
andria, and  about  to  start  on  the  maddest 
expedition  that  was  ever  'leard  of — a  jour- 
ney up  the  Nile,  into  tl"  maccessilile  re- 
ffions  of  Ci'Utral  Africa — to  try  to  discover 
the  Kotu'ces  of  that  river.  He  simply  an- 
nounced to  bis  ajjents  that  all  his  ])r('para- 
tions  Avere  completed,  and  tliat  be  would 
leave  immediately.  What  could  I  do  then  ? 
I  did  the  only  thing  there  was  to  be  done,  and 
hnrri<\l  to  Alexandria.  Of  course  he  had  left 
the  i)laee  befor(i  my  letter  reached  it;  .and  I 
learned  that  from  the  rai)id  way  in  which  he 
net  out  he  must  already  be  far  out  of  reach. 
Even  then  I  would  have  gone  after  him.  and 
tracked  him  to  the  sources  of  the  Nile  thi>m- 
selves,  if  1  had  been  altle.  Hut  I  had  no  ex- 
perience in  travel  of  that  kind.  I  couldn't 
nuuiage  a  band  of  Arabs,  for  I  didn't  know 
a  word  of  their  la:ij;uage,  and  of  C(uirse  i 
could  iu)t  stojt  to  study  it.  That  idea  wouhl 
have  been  al)surd.  liesiiles,  other  reasons 
had  weight  with  me,  and  so  I  came  rebic- 
tantly  back." 

"Africa!  the  sources  of  the  Nile!"  ex- 
claimed Edit!),  dolefully.  "  I  can't  tinder- 
stand  why  be  should  liave  chosen  those 
places." 


"Well,  it  is  no  new  idea.  It  is  a  tiling 
that  \w  has  had  in  his  mind  for  years.  I 
have  heard  him  talk  of  it  long  ago.  I  re- 
nu'inber  hearing  him  once  say  that  the  only 
chancer  now  remaining  by  which  a  man  could 
gain  brilliant  distiiustion  was  the  discovery 
of  the  sources  of  the  Nile.  Every  otlier  part 
of  the  world,  be  said,  is  known." 

"How  long  should  you  think  be  might 
be  absent  on  such  a  journey  t"  iwked  Edith, 
anxiously. 

"How  long?  Ah!  Miss  Dalton,  so  long 
that  it  slmuld  not  be  thought  of.  Years 
must  (dapse  before  he  returns." 

"Years!" 

"Yes — if  he  ever  does  return,"'  said  l">ud- 
leigh,  in  a  mournful  voice.  "With  him  now 
the  (inestion  is  not,  When  will  he  return? 
but  rather.  Will  he  ever  return?  It  is,  as 
yon  nmst  know,  ii  most  desperate  and  hope- 
less undertaking.  For  thousands  of  years 
men  have  tried  that  journey,  and  failed." 

"  Ibit  may  he  not  be  batllcd  and  turn  liack  ? 
There  is  some  hoi)e  in  tluit.  He  Avill  find 
out  that  it  is  imjiossible.''  And  Edith  for  a 
mcunent  gras])ed  at  that  thought. 

"  You  will  think  nu^  one  of  .Fob's  comfort- 
ers," said  Dndleigh,  with  a  mel;incholy  smile. 
"  Hut  I  think  it  is  a  jxtor  nnirlv  of  friendshiji 
to  hide  till!  truth.  It  is  better  for  you  to 
know  all  now.  The  fact  is,  there  would  be 
some  bojie  of  his  return  if  he  were,  any  other 
than  Sir  Lionel  Dndleigh.  But  being  what 
he  is,  he  will  follow  his  ])urpose  to  flit;  end. 
Ho  is  a  num  of  untlinching  courage  and  in- 
flexible determination.  More  than  this,  he 
announced  to  his  friends  before  he  left  that 
lie  would  either  tiring  back  the  truth  about 
the  sources  of  the  Nile,  or  else  he  would  not 
come  back  at  all.  So  now  he  has  not  only 
bis  resolution  to  impel  him,  but  bis  pride 
also." 

"This  hope,  then,  fails  me  utterly,"  said 
Edith,  after  a  long  pausi'. 

"  I  fear  so." 

"  He  is,  in  fact,  the  same  as  dead." 

"Y'es,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned,  and 
your  present  needs." 

"This  is  terrible!" 

"  Miss  Dalton,  I  do  not  know  what  to  say. 
I  can  only  say  that  my  heart  aches  for  you. 
I  didayed  on  the  road,  because  I  could  not 
bear  to  bring  this  news  to  you.  Then  I 
wrote  a  lettor,  and  thought  of  sending  that, 
but  I  feared  yon  might  not  get  it.  1  >  oiild 
not  bear  to  see  you  in  sorrow." 

"  Yon,  at  least,  l^ienteiiant  Dndleigh,''  said 
Edith,  earnestly,  "bave  acted  toward  me 
like  a  true  friend  and  a  true  gentleman.  No 
one  (;oul<l  have  done  more.  It  is  some  con- 
soli'tion  to  know  that  every  thing  which  was 
possible;  has  been  done." 

Tlwre  was  now  a  long  pause.  Eacli  one 
was  lost  in  thought.  Edith's  sad  face  wa« 
turne(l  lowanl  Dndleigh.  lint  she  did  not 
notice  him.     She  was  wrajnicd  in  her  own 


84 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


< 


: 


I  it 


i' 


thoiightfl,  and  wondering  how  long  who  could 
endiiro  the:  liCo  tliiit  now  lay  lu'foro  her. 

"Miss  Dalton,"  Hiiid  Diidlrif^h  at  length, 
in  a  mournful  voice,  "I  have  to  leave  at 
ouco  to  join  my  rei^iincnt,  for  my  h;avo  is 
up,  and  it  may  be  some  time  before  I  boo  you 
again." 

]!(»  paused. 

EdiMi  looked  at  him  earnestly,  fearful  of 
what  she  thought  might  bo  coming.  Would 
it  bo  a  confcHsion  of  lovt-  ?  How  strong  that 
lovo  must  ho  which  had  proui))t('d  him  to 
such  devotion!  And  yet  slii!  could  not  re- 
turn it?  Yet  if  he  said  any  tiling  about  it, 
what  could  she  say  ?  Could  she  refuse,  one 
who  had  done  so  much,  one  who  loved  her 
so  deeply,  ono  who  was  the  only  friend  now 
loft  her  ? 

"It  is  lieart-1)real<ing  to  leave  you  here. 
Miss  Dalton,"  he  continniid,  "  among  unscru- 
pulous (MKiUiies.  When  I  am  away  1  shall  be 
distracted  by  a  thousand  fears  about  you. 
How  can  you  endure  this  life?  And  yet  I 
might  do  something  to  save  yon  from  it. 
My  own  life  is  at  your  disposal.  Do  you 
wish  to  bo  free  now  ?  Will  you  have  that 
gate  opened,  and  lly  V 

Edith  said  not  a  word.  Sho  was  filled 
with  extreme  agitation.  Fly!  J)id  that 
mean  to  lly  with  him  ?  to  escape  with  a 
lover?  and  then — what? 

"If  you  wish  to  escape  now,  at  this  mo- 
ment, Miss  Dalton,  all  that  you  have  to  do 
is  to  go  ont  with  me.  I  am  armed.  If  there 
is  any  resistance,  I  can  force  a  way  through. 
The  first  man  that  dares  to  bar  the  way 
dies.  As  for  me,  if  I  fall,  1  shall  ask  nothing 
more." 

And  saying  this,  Dudleigh  looked  at  Edith 
inquiringly. 

But  Edith  faltered.  Her  horror  of  Idood- 
shed  was  great.  Was  her  situation  so  des- 
perate that  she  could  sacrifice  a  human  life 
to  gain  her  freedom?  P(!rhaj)s  that  life 
might  be  Dudleigh's.  Could  she  risk  the 
life  of  the  man  who  had  done  so  nnnli  for 
her  ?  She  could  not.  No,  after  all,  she 
shrank  from  gaining  her  freedom  at  such 
a  risk. 

Then,  again,  if  she  were  free,  where  conld 
sho  go  ?  8he  knew  now  how  utterly  forlorn 
sho  was.  Miss  Plymi)ton  was  gone,  and  Sir 
Lionel  was  gone.  There  were  none  left.  She 
<!Ould  not  live  without  money,  and  all  her 
vast  propc-'rty  was  under  the  control  of  an- 
other. Dudb'igh  had  said  nothing  about 
this.  He  had  said  nothing  about  love  ei- 
ther ;  and  slits  was  grateful  for  his  (hdicacy. 
Did  he  intend  in  his  deep  devotion  to  sup- 
port her  himself,  or  what  did  he  intend  ? 

"You  hesitate.  Miss  Dalton,"  said  he  at 
last.  "  Have  you  your  old  fear  about  blood- 
sheil?" 

"  1  can  not  bear  to  risk  such  a  s.icrifico," 
said  Edith. 

"  Hut  ono  has  a  right  to  Hy  from  slavery, 


and  to  destroy  any  one  who  tries  to  prevent 
his  escape." 

"  I  can  not,"  said  Edith.  "  The  blood  that 
might  be  shed  would  stain  all  my  life.  Bet- 
ter to  (Miduro  my  mis(!ry  as  best  I  can.  It 
must  become  far  worse  before  I  can  consent 
to  any  thing  so  terril)lo  as  the  death  of  a  fel- 
low-being." 

"  You  may  yet  con.sont  oven  to  that,  may 
you  not?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Wfdl,  if  you  do,  you  have  ono  on  whom 

you  can  rely.     At  any  rati",  I  do  not  think 

there  is  any  reason  for  you  to  fear  downright 

cruelty  here.     Tin;  law  protects  yon  from 

i  that.  Just  as  it  ])rot<!cts  a  child.      You  an; 

j  not  a  caplivi!  in  tlie  hands  of  one  of  those 

I  old    feudal    barons   whom    we   read   about. 

I  You  are  simply  a  ward  iiiuhu-  the  control  of 

I  a  guardian — a  thing  most  odious  to  oiks  like 

;  yon,  yet  one  whicli  does  not  make  you  liablt; 

i  to  any  jjliysical  (svil.     JSut  this  is  ])oor  com- 

j  fort.     I  know  that  your  position   will  be- 

i  coiiK!  more  intolerable  as  time  goes  on  ;  and, 

Miss  Dalton,  whenever  you  can  bear  it  no 

I  longer,  remenilier  that  I  am  ready.     Your 

only  danger  would  be  if  I  should  haiipen  to 

]  be  ordered  out  of  England.     But  even  tiieu 

I  would  (U'der  Barber  to  watch  over  you." 

Edith  sighed.     Her  future  seemed  dark 
indeed.     Tlie  eliaiico  that  Dudleigh  might 
bo  ordered  to  America  or  India  tilled  her 
with  new  alarm. 
Dudleigh  rose  to  go. 

"  In  six  or  eight  weeks,"  said  he,  "  I  hope 
to  come  again.  I  shall  never  forget  you,  but 
day  and  night  I  shall  be  planning  for  your 
happiness." 

ile  took  her  hand  as  ho  said  this.     Edith 
noticed  that  the  hand  wliitdi  held  hers  was 
as  cold  as  ice.     He  raised   her  hand  and 
pressed  it  to  his  lips. 
Soon  after  he  left. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

A  TirnEATKMNG    LKTTER. 

Ox  the  day  after  this  departure  of  Dud- 
leigli,  Edith  found  .'i  hitter  lying  on  her  ta- 
ble. It  was  address(;d  to  her  in  that  stitV, 
constrained  hand  which  she  knew  so  well  as 
belonging  to  that  oiteniy  of  her  life  and  of 
her  race — John  Wiggins.  With  some  curi- 
osity as  to  this  motive  which  he  might  have 
in  thus  writing  to  her,  sho  opened  the  letter, 
and  read  Uw  Ibllowing: 

"Dkau  Miss  Daltov, — I  feel  myself  in- 
capable of  susrainiiig  another  interview  with 
you,  and  I  am  therefore  reduced  to  tin;  neces- 
sity of  writing. 

"  I  have  been  deeply  pained  for  a  long 
time  at  t\w  recklessness  with  which  you  re- 
cei\e  total  strangers  as  visitors,  and  admit 


if  Dud- 
hor  tii- 
it  stitV, 
well  as 
and  of 
^o  curi- 
\i  biivo 
i  letter, 


Iclf  iii- 

[x  with 

neces- 

■i  lon^ 
roil  rc- 
ladiuit 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


85 


thom  to  your  confidcnro.  I  have  already 
warned  you,  hut  my  warniiij^s  were  reeeiv(Hl 
l>y  you  in  Hiieh  a  manner  as  to  prevent  uiy 
enconnteriiif;  another  interview. 

"I  write  now  to  inform  you  that  for  your 
own  Hake,  your  own  future,  and  your  own 
<;ood  name,  it  i.s  my  tixed  iiilention  to  ]>ut  a 
Htop  to  these  interviewH.  'J'liis  must  he  done, 
whatever  may  hc!  tin?  eost.  You  nuist  un- 
derstand from  this  tliat  there  is  nothing  left 
for  you  l)ut  to  oliey. 

"  If  after  this  you  allow  these  adventurers 
one  Min)j;le  interview  more,  I  shall  ho.  under 
llie  unpleasant  necessity  of  limitinjj;  your 
freedom  to  an  extent  that  may  be  painful  to 
you,  and  even  still  more  so  to  niysclf. 

"Yours,  .John  Wkkiins."' 

Edith  read  this  letter  over  and  over  aj^aiu, 
with  many  minf;led  fi'elinns.  Wijrjfiiis  had 
left  her  so  mtieli  to  herself  of  late  that  she 
liad  hey,iin  (o  count  n\nm  his  continued  in- 
action, and  supjiosed  that  he  was  too  nnieh 
afraid  of  l)ndleijj;h  to  interfere,  or  to  make 
any  oi)position  whatever  to  iiis  visits.  Now, 
however,  she  saw  that  hi;  had  made  u])  his 
mind  to  .action,  and  she  fully  lielieved  that 
he  was  not  Hkj  man  who  would  make  any 
idle  menace. 

The  tliini>-  that  olfended  Edith  most  in 
this  letter  was  what  sin;  emisidercMl  its  inso- 
leufU!.  Its  ton(!  w.as  that  of  a  superior  ad- 
dressinj;  an  inferior — a  jjatron  speakiiifj;  to  a 
dependtMit.  At  this  all  the  stuhhorn  pride 
of  Edith's  nature  was  outraged,  and  rose  in 
reliellion  ;  hut  above,  all  was  that  i>ride  stim- 
ulated by  the  woni  "obey." 

She  also  saw  in  tl  at  letter  the  indications 
of  an  unpleasant  de\"lopnient  of  .he  i)olicy 
of  AVifinins,  which  would  make  her  luture 
ilarker  than  her  present  was.  Hitherto  he 
had  siinjily  surrounded  her  with  a  barrier 
over  which  she  could  not  jiass,  admit tinjj 
to  her  only  those  whom  he  wished,  or  wluun 
he  could  not  keep  away.  IJut  now  she  saw 
some  approach  made  toil  more  positive  tyran- 
ny. There  was  a  threat  of  limiting;  her  free- 
dom. What  tiiat  !iu\int  she  could  easily 
conjecture.  Wijjfjins  was  evidently  dissat- 
i.^tied  with  the  liberty  which  sh(i  still  had  of 
walkinj;  over  thcs  grounds.  He  now  intend- 
ed to  eon  hue  her  within  the  Hall— perhaps 
in  her  own  room. 

This  showed  her  what  she  had  to  expect 
in  the  future.  The  steps  other  tyrant's  prog- 
ress would  be  gradual,  but  terril)le.  First, 
]ierha])s  she  would  hi!  conlined  to  the  Hall, 
then  to  lier  own  rooms,  and  tinally  perhaps 
to  some  small  chamber — some  cell — where 
she  woidd  live  a  living  death  as  long  as  her 
jailer  might  allow  her. 

In  addition  to  this  open  show  of  tyr.anny. 
she  also  saw  what  seemed  to  her  the  secret 
craft  Ity  wliich  Wiggins  hiul  contrived  an 
excuse  for  further  restraint.  Slu^  consider- 
ed Mowbray  and  Mrs.  Mowbray   as  direct 


agents  of  his.  As  for  Dudleigh,  she  now 
thought  tli.'it  Wiggins  ha<l  not  been  so  much 
afraid  of  him  as  lui  had  ai)peared  to  be,  but 
had  allowed  him  to  come,  so  as  to  gain  an 
excuse  for  further  coercion.  It  was  evident 
to  Edith  that  Dudleigh's  transjiarent  integ- 
rity of  chiiracter  and  his  ardent  esi)ousal  of 
her  cause  must  1m^  well  known  to  Wiggins, 
and  that  he  only  tolerated  this  visitor  so  as 
to  gain  a  |)lausible  pretext  for  putting  her 
under  restraint. 

That  letter  threw  an  additional  gloom 
over  Edith's  life,  and  lent  a  fresh  misery  to 
her  situation.  The  prosjicet  before  her  now 
was  dark  iiuleed.  Slu;  was  in  a  prison- 
lions<',  where  hei'  imprisonment  seenu'd  des- 
tined to  grow  closer  .and  closer.  There  was 
no  reason  why  Wiggins  should  sjiare  her  at 
all.  Having  so  successfully  shut  lier  within 
the  grounds  for  so  long  a  time,  he  would 
MOW  be  able  to  carry  out  any  mode  of  eou- 
finenu'ut  which  might  be  desirable  to  him. 
She  liiid  hi'ard  of  people  being  conlined  in 
private  nuid-houses,  through  the  conspiracy 
of  relatives  who  coveted  their  proi)erty. 
Thus  far  she  had  believed  these  stories  to 
be  wholly  imaginary,  but  now  she  began  to 
beli(^ve  them  true.  Her  own  case  had  shown 
her  the  I'ossibility  of  unjust  anil  illegal  ini- 
prisonnu'ut,  iinil  she  had  not  yc't  been  able 
to  lind  out  any  mode  of  escape.  This  ))lacc 
seemed  now  to  be  her  future  prison-house, 
where  her  imprisonment  would  grow  from 
bad  to  Wiirse.  and  where  she  herself,  under 
the  terrible  struggh;  of  feeling  to  which  she 
would  be  subject,  might  tinally  sink  into  a 
state  of  madiu'ss. 

iSucli  a  ])rosi)ect  was  terrible  beyoiul  words. 
It  fdl(Ml  her  with  liorror,  iind  she  regarded 
her  future  with  the  most  gloomy  forebodings. 
In  llie  face  of  all  this  she  had  a  sense  of  the 
most  utter  helplessness,  and  the  disaiii)oint- 
ments  which  slu^  had  thus  far  encountered 
only  served  to  deei)en  her  dejection. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  there  was  one  hope 
for  her,  and  one  only. 

That  solitary  hope  rested  altogether  on 
her  fiicnd  Dudleigh.  When  he  last  left  her 
he  had  promised  to  come  to  her  again  in  six 
or  eight  weeks.  This,  then,  was  tin;  only 
thing  left,  !I1m1  to  his  return  she  looked  for- 
ward incessantly,  with  the  most  eager  and 
imjiatient  ho]ic. 

To  her  it  now  seemed  .a  matter  of  second- 
ary importance  what  might  be  luu'  own  feel- 
ings toward  Dudleigh.  Slui  felt  conlident 
of  his  love  toward  her,  and  in  the  abhorrenec 
with  which  she  recoiled  from  the  terrible 
future  which  Wiggins  was  i)lanniug  for  her 
slu!  was  able  to  contemplate  Diulleigh's  ]ias- 
sion  with  complacency.  She  did  not  love 
the  little  man,  but  if  he  could  save  her  from 
the  horror  that  rose  before  her,  she  resolved 
to  shrink  fr(un  no  sacritiee  of  feeling,  but 
grant  him  what(,'ver  reward  he  might  claim. 

Time  passed.     Six  weeks  were  over,  but 


' 


86 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


ii 


tluTo  wpro  no  Hij^ns  of  Dudlcinh.  Tlio  hus- 
peiiso  of  Etlilli  in>w  Ik'cuiihi  tt-rriltle.  81u) 
began  to  fear  that  \V'igj;iiis  had  .shut  him 
out,  and  had  refused  to  alhiw  him  to  entiT 
again.  If  this  were  so,  and  if  Dudhigh  Jiad 
siihmitted  to  Hueh  exclusion,  then  all  wa.s 
indeed  lo.st.  Hut  Edith  would  not  yi^t  bo 
liovo  it.  Sho  clung  to  hop*!,  and  Hineo  he 
had  .said  "nix  or  eight  we(d4s,"  tthe  I  bought 
tlnit  sho  might  wait  the  extreme  limit  men- 
tioned by  him  before  Yielding  to  despair. 

Eight  wcek.s  jjasHed. 

On  the  day  when  those*  weeks  had  expired 
Edith  found  lierself  in  n  f(^ver  of  suspense, 
devoured  by  the  most  intolerable  impatience, 
with  all  lior  tliought.s  and  feelings  now  (cen- 
tred upon  Dudleigh,  and  her  last  hope  lixcd 
npon  him  only. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 


TIIK    I'KOI'OSAL. 


Ekjiit  weeks  |)assed. 

Edith's  inipatieneo  was  uncontrollable. 
Tims  far  she  had  passed  most  of  tin?  time  in 
\n'T  own  room;  but  now  the  continement 
was  more*  than  she  could  endure.  She  went 
out  into  the  grounds,  wlitjre  she  wandenMl 
day  after  day,  watching  and  listening,  rest- 
l(!.ssly  and  feverishly,  for  the  approach  of  her 
friend.  At  length  one  day,  as  she  was  walk- 
ing down  the  avenue,  a  well-known  (igure 
came  up  advancing  toward  her,  at  sight  of 
which  a  thrill  of  joy  pa.ssed  through  her. 
It  was  he.     At  bust  Little  Dudli;igh ! 

In  her  great  joy  she  did  Tiot  seek  to  con- 
ceal her  feedings,  or  to  maintain  that  reserve 
wliicli  thus  far  she  liad  manifested  in  her  in- 
terviews with  him.  All  this  was  thrown 
aside.  Here  stood  at  last  her  one  true 
friend,  the  one  whose  loss  she  had  lamented, 
wbose  return  slm  had  looked  for  so  eageily ; 
the  one  friend  coming  to  her  through  the 
enemies  who  intervened.  With  a  rapid  stc^p 
sho  advanced  toward  him.  She  held  out 
her  liands,  and  pressed  liis  warmly.  Her 
lips  (luivered,  tears  started  to  her  eyes,  but 
she  did  not  speak. 

"  I  am  back  again,  Miss  Dalton,"  said  Lit- 
tle Dudleigh,  joyously.  "  Hut  how  changed 
you  are!  You  have  suffered.  I  see  it  in 
your  face.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Has  any 
thing  new  lmi)pened?  Has  that  villain 
dared  to  offer  insult?  Ah,  why  Avas  I  not 
here  beifore  ?  Hut  I  could  not  come.  I 
came  as  soon  as  I  could." 

Edith  murmured  a  ft^w  words  in  reply, 
and  then  they  walked  together  at  a  slow- 
pace  along  the  avenue.  Edith  did  not  caro 
to  go  back  to  the  Hall,  where  all  was  so 
gh)omy,  but  i)referred  the  fresh  pure  air,  and 
the  cheering  face  of  nature. 

As  they  walked  on  together  Edith  re- 
counted the  events  of  her  life  since  she  had 


last  seen  him.  Now  all  her  long  pent-np 
feelings  burst  forth  without  restraint.  At 
last  she  had  some  one  to  whom  she  could 
confide  her  sorrows,  and  she  found  it  sweet 
to  talk  to  one  whom  she  knc^w  to  be  so  full 
of  sympathy.  To  all  this  Dudleigh  listened 
with  the  profoundest  attention,  and  with 
visible  agitation. 

In  all  that  she  said  and  in  all  her  maimer 
Edith  freely  expressed  the  joy  that  she  felt 
at  once  more  meeting  with  a  friend  so  tried, 
so  true,  so  valued,  in  whom  she  ccnild  trust 
so  implicitly,  and  from  whom  slu;  could  tind 
sympathy.  She  had  struggled  so  long  in  si- 
lence and  in  lonelinc'ss  that  Dudleigh's  sym- 
pathy seemed  doubly  sweet. 

When  she  cea.sed  a  long  silence  followed. 
Dudleigh's  agitation  still  continued.  Sev- 
eral times  he  looked  at  her  wistfully,  incpiir- 
ingly,  d(Mibtfully,  as  if  alxtut  to  s})eak,  aiul 
each  time  he  hesitated.  Hut  at  last,  with  a 
strong  effort,  he  spoke. 

"  I  must  say  it,  Miss  Dalton,"  said  be. 
"  I  am  comjKdled  to.  I  came  here  this  day 
— for  the  sole  purpo.so  of  saying — something 
which — you — may  bo  unwilliiig  to  Iniar.  I 
have  hesitated  long,  and  staid  away  lon- 
ger on  this  account,  yet  I  must  say  it  now. 
You  are  in  a  fearful  position.  Miss  Dalton. 
You  are  in  the  j)ower  of  an  un])rinci]iled 
anil  a  desi)erate  num.  I  feel  for  you  most 
deeply.  You  arealways  in  my  thoughts.  In 
order  to  assist  yon  I  have  done  all  that  I 
could.  I  do  not  wish  to  mak(>  any  allusions 
to  w  hat  I  have  done,  l)ut  rather  to  what  I 
have  felt,  and  shall  feel.  You  have  btnioine 
very  dear  to  me.  I  know  I  am  not  worthy 
of  yon.  You  are  abovi!  me.  I  am  only  a 
humble  lieutenant;  you  are  the  lady  of  Dal- 
ton Hall ;  but  I  can  not  bear  to — to  go  away 
and  leave  one  whom  I  love  in  the  powcsr  of 
a  villain.  Dare  I  offer  you  my  protection? 
Will  it  be  too  much  to  ask  you  to  be  mine  ? 
I  do  not  liope  that  you  can  look  ujjon  me 
just  yet  with  any  such  fcM'lings  as  love,  but 
I  see  tliat  you  treat  me  as  a  friend,  and  yon 
have  honored  me  with  your  confidence.  I 
have  never  said  any  thing  about  my  lovo  to 
you,  but  perhaps  you  have  not  been  alto- 
gether without  suspicion  about  it.  Had  I 
found  Sir  Lionel,  or  liad  I  thought  that  he 
was  at  all  accessible,  I  would  never  have 
made  my  humblo  confession  until  you  were 
in  a  differtiut  position.  I  am  ashamed  to 
make  it  now,  for  thougli  I  know  that  you 
would  not  suspect  me  of  any  thing  base, 
yet  it  looks  as  if  I  were  taking  ailvantage 
of  your  necessities.  Hut  I  km.w  that  to 
a  mind  like  yours  such  a  susjiicKUi  would 
nov(!r  eonu  ;  and  I  am  cmnforted  by  the 
thought  that  if  you  do  listini  to  my  recjuest 
it  will  lead  to  your  safety.  I  think,  too, 
that  if  it  were  ])ossil)le  for  you  to  consent, 
even  if  yon  felt  no  vt>ry  tender  sentiment 
toward  nie,  you  would  have  from  me  n  de- 
votion such  as  few  others  are  capable  of 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


87 


feeling.  Under  RUeli  cireiinistaiicps  you 
niij^lit  not  he  iiltogetlier  unliiipiiy." 

All  this  Dii(ll('i<{li  hail  spoken  witli  fever- 
ish raiiidity,  and  with  every  si^^ii  of  the 
stron;;est  a<;itation,  occasionally  siopijinf;, 
and  then  resiiniin|j;  his  remarks  in  a  iiead- 
lonj;  way.  Hut  if  ho  Inid  felt  agitation, 
Edith  liad  felt  at  least  (piite  as  nmeh.  At 
the  first  mention  of  his  ]iro|iosal  lier  liead 
sank  forward,  iind  shi^  looked  tixedly  upon 
the  gronnd  with  downeast  eyes,  while  her 
lears  fell  ahnndantly,  .She  said  nothing. 
Uiidleigli  in  his  freqiieiit  (lanses  seemed  to 
expect  that  she  would  8uy  something,  but 
she  did  not.  ^ 

Edith's  feelings  were  of  the  most  distrt-HS- 
ing  kind.  iSlie  had,  of  course,  anticipated 
something  like  this,  lint  had  never  yet  been 
alilu  to  dec'ide  what  she  should  do  in  the 
event  of  such  a  confession.  Sin;  did  not 
love  him.  Her  feelings  toward  him  were  of 
a  totally  dill'erent  kind.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  such  a  feeling  as  love  could  never  liy 
any  possiliility  he  felt  hy  lier  for  him.  And 
yet  she  had  a  very  strong  regard  for  liim. 
His  society  was  very  (deasant  to  her.  !she 
woiild  have  done  nmch  and  sacrificed  much 
for  his  sake.  IJut  to  be  hi.s  wife,  that  was  a 
thing  which  seemed  odious. 

Yi^t  what  could  she  (h)?  ITer position  was 
intolerable  and  full  of  peril.  If  she  wen; 
his  wife,  in  oiu;  monu'ut  slu^  would  be  safe, 
tV' e,  and  uiulcr  the.  protection  of  oik^  who 
loved  her  with  utter  (h>voti(ni.  True,  she. 
had  no  siu'h  sentiment  toward  him  as  a  wife 
should  have  for  a  husband,  but  he  himself 
was  aware  of  that,  and  in  spite  of  tlnit  was 
willing,  nay,  eager,  to  take  her.  .She  was 
toiuhed  to  tlu^  heart  by  his  self-dcpret  ia- 
tion  and  jirofouiul  respect. 

Then,  again,  she  thought,  ought  not  he 
liimself  to  be  considered?  Had  he  no 
I'liiims?  He  had  given  himself  up  to  her; 
he  had  d(UU'  uiiich  for  her.  He  liad  ot  ered 
;igain  and  aj;ain  to  give,  up  his  life  !\.r  her. 
Ought  not  siudi  rare  devotion  to  uu'ct  with 
some  rewiutl?  And  what  ri'ward  could  she 
ever  giv<'?  There  was  only  one  which  he 
wanted — herself.  Could  she  refuse  bim 
that  ? 

Diidleigh  said  not  another  word,  and  in 
thiitlong  and  iiu)st  embarrassing  silence  lu^ 
looked  away  so  as  not  to  add  to  her  confu- 
sion. Edith  did  not  know  what  to  do  or 
say.  Could  slu!  refuse  him  1  Then  how  ui»- 
grateful  she  would  bo  to  her  best  frieml ! 
Hut  if  he  should  leave  her?  What  tluui  ? 
A  life  of  despair!  The  complete  triumph 
of  Wiggins.     A  living  death. 

Was  it  at  all  singular  that  she  recoiled 
fn^m  siudi  an  alternativi^?  She  could  not 
endure  this  captivity  any  longer.  And  was 
it,  then,  80  dreadful  to  give  herself  to  the 
man  who  adored  herf  No.  If  she  did  not 
love  hiiii,  s\u',  at  least  had  a  strong  frieml- 
ship,  and  this  in  time  might  change  to  love. 


She  ha<l  a  greater  regard  for  hini  than  for 
any  other  man.  Distasteful?  It  was.  Y<'s. 
Kut  it  was  far  better  than  this  imprison- 
ment. .She  nmst  tak*'  him  as  her  husband, 
or  lose  him  forever.  IIi^  could  do  no  more 
for  her  unless  she  becauu'  his  wife.  Ho 
could  only  sav(i  her  by  nuirrying  her. 

She  was  touched  by  his  present  uttitiule. 
He  was  waiting  so  jialiently,  so  humbly. 
She  saw  his  deep  agitation. 

Suddenly,  by  a  (piick  movement,  she  turn- 
ed toward  him  anil  held  out  her  hantl.  Dud- 
leigli  took  it,  ami  for  u  moment  eiicli  gazed 
into  thi!  other's  eyes,  regardless  of  observa- 
tion. Dudleigh's  face  was  deathly  pale,  and 
his  hand  as  cold  as  ice. 

"Oil,  my  friend,"  said  Edith,  in  a  low, 
hesitating  voice,  "what  can  I  say  to  you? 
I  can  not  give  you  love.  I  have  no  such 
feeling,  but  I  fi'cl  deep  gratitiuh^.  I  km)W 
your  worth.  You  have  done  so  nuich,  and 
I  wish  I  could  feel  different.  If  you  take 
nu!  as  I  am,  I — I — I  am — yours.  Hut  I  am 
not  worthy.  No.  I  am  not — not  woithy  of 
such  (ievolion.  Von  love  me,  Imt  I  do  not 
love  you.  What  can  I  do  f  Yet  in  spite  of 
this,  if  you  ask  me,  I  am — yours." 

Edith  spoke  witli  downcast  eyes  and  doe]> 
embarrassment  and  fre(|iu'nt  hesitation.  Her 
last  words  died  away  almost  into  a  whisper. 
Hut  tlu!  agitation  of  Dmlleigh  was  now  even 
greater  than  her  own.  A  changi^  came  over 
him  that  was  terrilile  to  witiu'ss.  As  he 
took  her  hand  he  trembled,  almiist  convul- 
sively, from  head  to  foot.  His  face  beeanm 
ghastly  white,  he  jiressed  his  hand  against 
his  heart,  his  breathing  was  thick  and  op- 
])ressed,  liig  drops  of  ))ers|iiration  started 
forth  upon  his  lirow,  aiid  at  last,  to  Edith's 
ama/.enu'Ut,  be  liurst  into  tears,  and  sobbed 
aloud.  Then  he  dro|>ped  her  hand,  and 
turiu'd  away,  murmuring  some  inarticulate 
words. 

At  t  his  Edith's  eonfusi(m  passed  away,  and 
changed  to  wonder,  What  was  the  meaning 
of  this?  Tears  and  sobs — ami  from  a  nuiul 
Hut  the  thought  at  oiu'e  occurred  that  this 
was  his  sensitiveness,  and  that  it  arose  from 
her  telling  him  so  plaiidy  that  she  did  not 
love  him.  "  I  cm  not  love  bim,  and  hf!  knpws 
it,"  she  thought,  "ami  it  breaks  his  heart, 
])o(U'  fellow!  How  I  wish  I  coidd  console 
him!" 

Suddenly  Dmlleigh  dashed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  and  walked  swiftly  onward.  Edith 
followed  as  fast  as  she  coidd,  kcejiing  him  in 
sight,  but  falling  farther  and  farther  beliiml. 
At  length  he  turned  ami  canu*  back  t(»  meet 
her.  His  eyes  were  downcast,  and  then;  was 
misery  uns)M'ak;ibl(!  on  his  white  face;.  As 
he  canu^  up  to  her  he  held  out  his  hand, 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  strange,  woful 
gaze. 

Edith  took  the  hand  wliioh  he  held  ont. 

"Mi.s.s  Dalton,"  said  he,  "you  said  you 
woidd  be  i.'iiue." 


86 


Tin:  LIVING  LINK. 


It 


!  • 


)|i 


•TIIKN    UK    liUOl'l'EI)    IlKK    HAND,    AM)    TUKNIOI)    AWAY. 


Edith's  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  escupcd 
them. 

"All  that  yon  havo  said,  Miss  Dalton,"  he 
('ontii\iipd,  "  1 1'ccl  most  dccjily,  most  kcoiily  ; 
lint  how  else  conhl  it  havo  been  ?  Yet  if  you 
will  indeed  be  mine,  I  will  ^ivo  you  my  love 
and  gratitude.  I  will  save  you  from — from 
danger;  I  will  —  will  —  bless  yon."  He 
stopped,  and  looked  at  her  with  (jnivering 
lips,  while  an  expression  of  agonj'  camo  across 
his  faee. 

But  Edith's  eyes  were  downeast  now,  and 
she  did  not  see  this  new  anguish  of  his;  her 
own  distress  was  too  great. 

Dudleigh  droin)ed  lier  Iiand  again. 

"Where  shall  it  be?"  said  lie,  hurriedly 
and  nervoi'sly.  "It  (!an  not  bo  in  the  Hall. 
Will  yon  v(^nturo  to  jtass  tlie  gates  with  me  ? 
— I  will  force  my  way  throngli — or  are  yon 
afraid?" 

"  I  can  not  consent  to  blood'shed,"  said 
Editli, 

"  I  thought  of  that,"  .said  Dudleigh,  "and 
I  havo  one  more  ))lan — if  you  will  only 
consent.  It  is  not  nnndi  to  you  wlio  have 
snfll'ered  so  much.  It  will  make  your  way 
to   freedom   easy.      Can    we    not   meet    in 


ihe  -jjark  somewhere  —  in  some  secluded 
placet'' 

"In  the  park?"  repeated  Edith,  abstract- 
edly. 

"  I  can  bring  a  clergyman  inside,"  said 
Dudleigh,  in  a  low  voic(\ 

Edith  shmldered.  TJio  idea  was  not  yet 
U'Hti  reinignant  than  it  had  btien.  Hut  she 
had  consented,  and  hero  was  this  man— her 
only  friend,  her  adorer — with  all  his  lov(! 
and  devotion.  If  she  did  not  love  hin),  she 
nnist  pity  him.  She  had  also  giv(!n  her 
word.  As  to  tJie  way  in  which  this  ])romise 
might  1)0  carried  out,  it  was  a  matter  of  in- 
ditVerenco.  At  any  rate,  she  would  escal)t^ 
from  her  hateful  ])rison.  And  wjiat  matter- 
ed it  how,  or  where,  or  when  the  ceremony 
might  be  jierformed  ? 

"  Oil,  Miss  Dalton,"  said  Dudleigh, "  forgive 
me!  forgive  nns !  I  nuist  go  a  v.  ay  in  two 
days.  Could  you  constnit  to  'et  this  bo — to- 
morrow ?" 

Edit  h  made  no  reply.  She  trembled.  Iltsr 
head  sank  down  lower. 

"  Tliere  is  one  i)lace,"  said  Dudleigh,  and 
then  liesitated.  Edith  said  nothing.  Th;  re 
was  anguish  in  her  face  and  in  her  heart. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


P9 


•Kivo 

1  WD 

-to- 
ller 


"  Tho  cliapol— " 

"  Tim  cliiiinl,"  hIio  roptatol,  (Ircainily. 

"It  is  liitldt'ii  iiinoiif^  Mic  lr<rs.  I  to  you 
know  it  1     It  \h  away  I'roiii  all  obscrvalioii." 

IMitli  Imwcd  her  litjul.  Slit'  knew  it  well. 
It  was  oil'  till!  main  iiveiinc — not  far  away 
IVoiii  liii^  Hail. 

"Can  you  ;;('t  out  of  the  house  after  dark  ?" 
Haid  l)udleii;li,  in  a  feverisli  wliisper.  "It 
must  l>t^  after  dark,  and  we  nnist  lie  inioli- 
servcd.  For  if  Wi);j{ins  wero  to  wee  lis  he 
would  (!om(«  as  your  ;;uardian  and  take  you 
hack,  and  shut  yon  u])  -perhaps  t'or  life."' 

Tills  sut;K''slion  ahout  \Vi;;j;iiis  eliinied  iu 
with  EilitlTs  own  tears.  It  made  her  des- 
perate. 'i"h(^  marriafi(!  seemed  less  iihhor- 
rent  ;  it  was  eelijised  liy  the  horrors  of  im- 
prisonment for  life.  Discovery  now — after 
that  last  threatofliis— would  lu'inK  n  fhtser 
restraint,  stricter  im})risonment,  the  loss  of 
all  hop(\ 

"  I  <'an  fjet  out,"Hh('  said,  hurriedly. 

"Where  shall  I  find  you  /" 

"There  is  a  private  door  at  the  east  end—" 

"  I  know  the  (Uior." 

"  I  can  f^et  out  throujih  that.  No  oiio  will 
think  of  my  leavinj;  tlit!  Hall  after  dark." 

"  I  will  meet  yon  there." 

Edith  sijjhed  heavily. 

"  To-morrow  eveninf,^,"  said  Dudieiiih,  "  at 
ton  o'clock.  It  will  lie  dark  then.  Will  you 
meet  me  ?" 

"I  will," said  Editli, calmly. 

"I  shall  only  hojie,  then,"  s.iid  he,  "  that 
no  new  reslraiiu  may  his  imjiosed  upon  yon 
to  jireveut  your  cominj^.  And  now  I  will 
go — to  meet  you  to-morrow." 

He  seized  her  hand  iu  his  icy  grasj),  wrunj; 
it  convulsively,  and  bowinir  with  his  pallid 
face,  walked  (piickly  away. 

There  was  a  weight  on  Edith's  heiirt ;  Init 
in  s])it(^  of  this,  Dndleij^h's  last  look,  his  aj;i- 
tated  manner,  and  his  deep  love  tilled  her 
with  ]iity,  and  made  her  anxious  to  carry 
out  her  act  of  self-sacritico  for  so  dear  and 
bo  true  a  friend. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

A   MAKIUA(iK    IN  TIIK    PAHIC. 

TllK  chapel  referred  to  was  ji  sombre  edi- 
fice over  the  p;'""^''^^  "f  t^"'  Daltous.  Ue- 
neath  it  were  tin!  vaults  where  reposed  tin;  re- 
mains of  Edit  ii's  ancestors.  The  chapel  was 
nsed  lor  the  celebration  of  burial  rites.  It 
was  in  this  jilaco  that  the  marriage  was  to 
take  place.  Edith,  in  her  f^looni.  thought  the 
place  an  ajiproiiriate  one.  Let  th(^  marriage 
be  there,  she  thought — iu  that  (ilace  whertj 
never  any  thing  but  burials  hits  lieen  ktiown 
bef(ue.  Could  she  have  changed  the  one  serv- 
ice into  the  other,  she  would  have  dom^  so. 

And  yet  she  would  not  go  back,  for  it-  was 
the  least  of  two  evils.     The  other  aUerna- 


"Sllli   SAW   TUUDUOII   TllK   UI-UO.M    A    l-IGUUK.' 

tiv(^  was  captivity  under  the  iron  hand  of 
Wiggins — Wiggins  tln^  adveiiluicr,  liie  for- 
ger, th(^  lietrayer  of  her  father,  whose  power 
over  hei'self  was  a  peipetu.al  insult  to  that 
father's  memory  —  a  thing  intolerable,  a 
tiling  of  horror.  Why  slimild  she  not  give 
herself  to  the  man  who  love<l  her,  even  if 
her  own  love  was  wanting,  when  siK^h  an 
act  would  free  her  from  so  accursed  a  tyr- 
anny 1 

Agitated  and  excited,  she  lingen'd  through 
tlur  honi's  of  the  day  after  jiarting  with  I)ud- 
leigli.  Night  cami',  but  brought  no  rest; 
and  the  following  day  dawneil,  iind  the  ir- 
revocable hour  drew  nigh.  That  day  was 
one  tilled  with  strange  fears,  chief  among 
which  was  the  thought  that  Wiggins  might 
discover  all.  or  suspect  it,  and  arrest  her 
llight.  Hut  time  jiassed,  and  evening  cauie, 
anil  Wiggins  had  done  nothing. 

All  was  still.  The  house  was  alw.ays  still, 
and  sunoiiiided  her — !i  vast  solitude.  Mrs 
])unliar  was  in  her  own  room  :  it  w;is  always 
her  habit  to  retire  early.  Wiggins  was  far 
jiway,  at  the  west  enil  of  the  Hall.  Hugo 
was  in  his  remote  (iuart<'rs  in  the  .at  tie.  The 
vigilance!  which  hca-  kei^iiers  maintainiMl  by 
day  was  relaxed  at  night,  for  they  novor 
siis]ieeted  hel   of  any  design  of  leaving  the 

i  house  after  dark.      Her  interview  with  Dnd- 
leigli  must  have  been  seen  and  re])orte(l,  but 

]  no  acti(ui  that  she  was  awan^  of  lii'.d  be(Mi 
taken.     I'lrliajis  Wiggins  was  waiting  for 

'  him  to  niak(!  another  call,  when  Ik;  would 

i  step  forth  and  formally  lock  her  np  in  her 
room. 

And  now,  as  Edith  prep.ared  to  carry  her 
jilan  into  execution,  there  was  nothing  all 
aroiiml  but  the  most  profound  stillness,  ITn- 
derneath  the  story  on  which  her  room  was 


:  ".it' 


,  1 1 

m 


•l..:li 


:il 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


'zM  m 

113  2 

iim 

1-4    IIIIII.6 


V} 


^ 


/}. 


A 


c*: 


e-l 


<p 


<I 


//' 


'/ 


s 


Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


:<\^ 


V 


"Q^ 


N> 


i^ 


6^ 


% 


V" 


73  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY    M580 

(716)  872-4503 


T 


&x 


w- 


90 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


there  extended  a  liall,  at  the  east  end  of 
which  there  wa8  a  private  Htairway  lead- 
ing down  to  a  Bniall  door  which  opened  out 
into  the  i)ark.  Leavin<r  her  room  noiselosH- 
ly,  she  descended  to  the  lower  hall,  trav- 
ersed it,  and  descended  the  stairway  to  the 
door.  It  was  secured  hy  a  bolt  only.  This 
she  drew  back  as  noiselessly  as  possible — 
jiot,  however,  without  an  unpleasantly  loud 
grating  sound.  The  door  opened  without 
nuich  dirticulty.  She  passed  through  it. 
.She  shut  it  after  her.  Then  she  turned  to 
step  down  upon  the  grass.  She  saw  through 
the  gloom  a  tigure.  She  recognized  it.  It 
was  Dudlcigh. 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  took  h«'rs.  As 
before,  his  hand  was  icy  cold,  and  he  trem- 
bled violently.  But  Edith  also  was  trem- 
bling with  excitement  and  agitation,  and 
was  then  fore  too  much  taken  uji  w;th  her 
own  feelings  to  notice  those  of  others.  Dud- 
leigh  did  not  say  a  word,  but  started  ott'  at 
once,  leading  her  by  the  hand. 

Now  that  she  had  gone  thus  far,  the  act 
seemed  too  terrible  to  be  endured,  and  she 
wouhl  hiwi'  given  any  thing  to  go  l»ack. 
There  came  over  her  a  frightful  feeling  ()f 
apprehension — a  deep,  dark  horror,  unutter- 
alile,  intolerable.  But  it  was  now  too  late 
— she  had  to  go  on.  And  on  she  went, cling- 
ing to  Dudleigh,  who  himself  showed  an  agi- 
tati<in  Cijual  to  hers.  Tiiiis  they  walked  on 
in  silence.  Each  might  havt^  heard  the 
strong  throbbing  of  the  other's  heart,  had 
not  the  excitement  of  each  been  so  over- 
whelming. In  this  way  they  went  on,  trem- 
bling, horror-stricken,  till  at  length  they 
reached  the  chapel. 

It  was  a  dark  and  sonibn;  edifice,  in  the 
ICgyptiim  style,  now  darker  and  more  som- 
bre in  the  gloom  of  evening  and  tlie  shad- 
ows of  surrounding  trees.  Tiie  door  was 
open.  As  they  entered,  two  figures  ad- 
vanced from  tht!  sliadows  of  the  trees.  One 
of  these  wore  a  white  surplice;  the  other 
was  undistinguishable  in  tiie  gloom,  save 
that  his  stature  was  that  of  a  tall,  large 
nnin. 

"Tli((  clergynuni  and  the — witness,"  said 
Duilleigh,  in  a  tremulous  whisper. 

As  these  two  entered,  one  of  them  closed 
the  door.  The  dull  creaking  of  tlie  liingeii 
grated  harshly  on  Edith's  ears,  and  struck 
fresii  horror  to  her  heart.  She  faltered  and 
trembled.     She  sank  ba<'k. 

"  Oh,  I  can  not,  I  can  not !"  she  moaned. 
"  CouRige,  dear  one ;  it  will  soon  be  over," 
whispered  I)u(lleigh,  in  an  agitated  voicu'. 

Edith  nuule  a  violent  etVort  to  regain  her 
composure.  Hut  she  felt  helpless.  Her  senses 
seemed  leaving  her;  her  heart  throlibed  still 
niort>  painfully  ;  her  brain  whirled.  She 
clung  to  Dudleigh.  But  as  she  clung  to  him 
she  felt  that  he  trembled  as  violiMitly  as  she 
herself  did.  This  nuule  her  feel  calmer. 
■She  pitied  him.     Pour  fellow,  she  thought, 


ho  sees  my  agitation.  He  thinks  I  hato 
him.  He  is  broken-hearted.  I  must  bu 
calmer  for  his  sake. 

"  Where  are  the  lights  f"  asked  the  cler- 
gynuni. 

"  Lights  f"  repeated  Dudleigh. 
"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it  won't  do  to  have  lights,"  said 
he,  ill  the  same  agitated  voice.     "  I — T  ex- 
plained all  that.  The  light  will  show  through 
the  window.     We  must  go  down  into  the 
j  vaults." 

i      Outsidc!,  it  was  veryob.scure;  inside,  it  was 

(|uite  dark.     Edith  could  see  the  luitline  of 

1  a  large  window  and  the  white  sheen  of  the 

clergyman's  surplice ;  nothing  more  was  vis- 

,  ible. 

The  clergyman  stood  waiting.  Dudleigh 
went  to  the  witness  and  conversed  with  him 
in  a  low  whisper. 

I  "  Tlui  witness,"  said  Dudleigh,  as  he  came 
back,  ''  forgot  to  bring  lights.  I  have  noue. 
Have  you  any  V 

"Lights? — no,"  said  the  clergyman. 
"  What  shall  we  do  i" 
"  I  don't  know." 

"  We  can't  go  down  into  the  vaults." 
"I  should  say,"  remarked  the  clergyman, 
"  that  since  we  have  no  lights,  it  is  far  bet- 
ter for  us  to  remain  where  W(^  are." 
"  But  we  may  be  overheard." 
"  I  shall  sp('i*ik  low." 

"Isn't  it  a  little  too  dark  here?"  asked 
Dudleigh,  tremulously. 

"  It  certainly   is   rather  dark,"  said  the 

clergyman,  "but  I  sui>iioseit  can't  be  helped, 

and  it  iiccmI  not  make  any  ditVfrenee.    The  re 

!  is  a  witness  who  has  seen  the  ))iirties.  and  as 

you   say  secrecy  is  needed,  why,  this  dark- 

}  ness  may  be  all  the  nion"  favorable.     But  it. 

,  is  no  concern  of  mine.     Only  I  should  think 

it  eijually  .safe,  and  a  great  deal  )ileasanter, 

to  havt^  the  ceremony  here  tliau  down  in 

the  vaults." 

All  this  had  been  spoken  in  a  quick  low 
tone,  so  as  to  guard  against  being  overheanl. 
During  thisscene  Edith  had  stood  trembling, 
half  fainting,  with  a  kind  of  blank  despair 
in  her  soul,  and  scarcely  any  consciousuess 
of  what  was  going  on. 

The  witness,  who  had  entered  last,  moved 
slowly  and  carefully  al)out,  and  walked  \\\> 
to  where  he  could  see  the  tigure  of  Edith 
faintly  defined  agiiinsl,  the  white  sheen  of 
tiu^  clergy  man's  surplice.  Ho  stood  tit  her 
right  hand. 

"  Begin,"  said  Dudleigh  ;  and  then  he  said, 
"Miss  Daltoii,  when^  are  you?'' 

She  said  nothing.     She  could  not  speak. 
"Miss  Dalton,"  said  he  again. 
She   tried   to   speak,  but   it  ended   in  a 
moan. 

Dudleigh  seemed  to  distinguish  her  now, 
for  he  went  towiird  her,  antl  the  next  mo- 
ment she  felt  the  bridegroom  at  her  side. 
A  shudder  passed  througli  Edith.     She 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


91 


sitid, 

ilk. 

in   ii 

now, 
mo- 

Slio 


could  think  of  nothing  hnt  the  horror  of  her 
situation.  And  yet  slio  did  not  think  of  re- 
treating. No.  Her  plighted  word  had  been 
given,  and  the  dark  terror  of  Wiggins  made 
it  still  more  impossible.  Yet  so  deep  was  her 
agitation  that  there  was  scarce  any  thought 
on  her  mind  at  all. 

And  now  the  clergyman  began  the  mar- 
riage service.  Ho  could  not  use  his  book, 
of  course,  but  ho  knew  the*  services  by  heart, 
and  went  on  HiuMitly  enough,  omitting  here 
and  there  an  unimportant  part,  and  speaking 
in  a  low  voice,  but  very  rapidly.  Edith 
scarcely  understood  a  word. 

Then  the  clergyman  saiil : 

"  Leon,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  thy 
wedded  wife,  to  live  together  after  ({otl's  or- 
dinance in  the  ludy  estate  of  matrinujuyf 
Wilt  thou  love  her,  comfort  her,  honor,  and 
keo))  iier  in  sickness  and  in  heulth  ;  and  for- 
saking all  otlusr,  keep  thee  only  unto  her,  so 
long  aU  ye  both  shall  live  ?" 

The  bridegroom  answered,  in  a  whisper, 

"  I  xs-ill." 

"Edith,  wilt  thou  have  this  man  to  thy 
wedded  husband,  to  live  together  after 
(jod's  ordinance  in  the  holy  estate  of  nnitri- 
niony  f  Wilt  thou  obey  him  and  serve  him, 
love,  honor,  and  keep  him  in  sickness  an<l 
in  health;  and  forsaking  all  other,  kec]) 
thee  only  unto  him,  so  long  as  ye  both  shall 
live  ?" 

Edith  tried  to  say  "  I  will,"  but  only  an 
unintelligible  sound  escajied  her. 

Then  the  clergyman  went  on,  while  the 
bridegroom  repeated  in  a  whisper  these 
words : 

"  I,  Leon,  take  thee,  Edith,  to  my  wedded 
wife,  to  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  for- 
ward, for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for 
poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  lieallh,  to  love 
and  to  cherish,  till  <leath  us  do  part,  acconl- 
ing  t(»  God's  holy  ordinance;  and  thereto  I 
plight  thee  my  troth." 

'I'lie  clergynuin  then  said  the  words  for 
Edith,  but  slie  could  not  repeat  the  formula 
alter  him.  Ileri!  and  there  she  uttered  a 
word  or  two  in  a  disjointed  way,  but  that 
was  all. 

Then  Edith  felt  her  hand  taken  and  a 
ring  jint  on  her  linger. 

Then  the  clergyman  said  the  next  fonnula, 
which  the  bridegroom  repeated  after  him  in 
a  whisper  as  before: 

"  With  this  ring  I  thee  wed,  with  my  body 
I  thee  worshi|),  aiid  with  all  my  worhlly 
goods  I  thee  enilow,''  etc.,  etc. 

Then  followed  a  prayer,  after  which  the 
elergynnm, joining  their  right  hands  togeth- 
er, said, 

"Those  whom  God  hath  joined  together, 
let  no  man  ]>ut  asunder." 

Then  followed  the  renii  inder  of  the  serv- 
ice, and  at  its  conclusion  tins  clergyman 
solemnly  wished  them  every  ha)ipiness. 

"  I  suppose  I  may  go  now,"  suid  he;  and 


as  there  was  no  answer,  he  groped  his  way 
to  the  do«)r,  Hung  it  open,  and  took  his  de- 
parture. 

During  all  this  service  Edith  liad  been  in 
a  condition  verging  upon  half  unconscious- 
uess.  The  low  murmur  of  voices,  the  hur- 
ried words  of  the  clergyman,  the  whispers 
of  the  bridegroom,  were  all  confused  togeth- 
er in  an  unintelli;;ible  whole,  and  even  her 
own  answers  had  scarce  matle  any  impres- 
sion up<ui  her.  Her  head  seemed  to  spin, 
her  brain  to  whirl,  and  all  her  frame  t<» 
sink  away.  At  length  the  grating  of  thti 
opening  door,  the  clergynum's  dejiii  .'ng 
footsteps,  and  the  slight  increase  of  light 
roused  her. 

.She  was  married  ! 

Where  was  her  husband  T 

This  thought  <ame  to  her  with  a  new  hor- 
ror. Deep  silence  had  followed  the  clergy- 
man's dejiarture.  She  in  her  weakness  was 
not  nolice<l.  Dudleigh,  tins  loving,  the  de- 
voted, had  no  love  or  ilevotion  fin-  her  now. 
Wliere  was  he  T     The  silence  was  ti-rrible. 

Ihit  at  last  that  silence  was  broken — fear- 
fully. 

"Come,"  said  a  voice  which  thrilled  the 
inmost  soul  of  Edith  with  horror  nnsjieaka- 
ble;  "  I'm  tired  of  humbugging.  I'm  going 
home.     Come  along,  Mrs.  Dudleigh." 

The  horror  that  ]iassed  through  Edith  at 
the  sound  of  this  voice  for  a  moment  seemed 
to  i)aralyze  her.  Siie  turned  to  where  th<» 
voice  sountled.  It  was  the  man  Ix'side  her 
who  sjKdit? — the  bi-idegnxun  !  He  was  not 
Dndliigh— not  Little  Dudleigh!  He  was  tall 
and  large.  It  was  the  witness.  What  fright- 
ful ino«'kery  was  Ihist  Hut  the  confusion 
of  thought  that  arose  was  rudely  inter- 
ru|)ted.  A  strong  hanil  was  laid  upon  hers, 
and  again  that  voice  spoke: 

"Come  along.  Mrs.  Dudleigh!" 

"What  is- this?"  gasped  Edith. 

"Why.  you're  nntrried,  that's  all.  You 
ought  to  know  that  by  this  time." 

"Away!"  cried  Edith,  with  a  sli'wp  cry. 
"  Who  are  you  ?  Dudleigh  !  Dudleigh  I 
where  are  yiui  f     Will  you  not  help  me  f" 

"Th;it's  not  very  likely,"  siiid  the  same 
voice,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "  His  business  is 
to  hel)i  Hie." 

"Oil,  my  God!  what  is  the  nu'aning  of 
this  r 

"Dh,  it's  simple  iMiongh.  It  means  that 
you're  my  wife." 

"  lowrwife!  Oh.  Dudleigh!  oh.  my  frienil! 
what  does  all  this  mean  f  Why  do  you  uut 
speak  f" 

Itnt  Dudleigh  said  nothing. 

"  I  have  no  objections  to  explaining,"  said 
the  voice.  "  You're  actually  married  to  me. 
My  mime  is  not  Mowitray.  It's  Leon  Dud- 
leigh, the  individual  that  you  just  plighted 
your  troth  to.  My  small  friend  hei't<  is  not 
l.fon  Dutlleigh,  whatever  other  Dudleigh  ho 
may  call  himself     He  is  the  witness." 


92 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"It's  false!"  cried  Edith.  "Lieutenant 
Dudleigh  would  never  betray  me." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,"  said  Leon,  "  I  happen 
to  be  tiie  happy  man  who  alone  can  claim 
you  an  his  bride." 

"  Villain !"  shrieked  Edith,  in  utter  horror. 
"  Cursed  villain  I  Let  go  my  hand.  This 
is  all  mockery.  Your  wife! — I  would  die 
first." 

"  Indeed  you  won't,"  said  Leon — "  not 
while  you  have  me  to  love  and  to  cherish 
yon,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  till  death  us 
do  iiart,  and  forsaking  all  others,  keep  only 
unto  you,  in  the  beautiful  words  of  that  in- 
teresting service." 

"  It's  a  lie !  it's  a  lie !"  cried  Edith.  "  Oh, 
Lieut^niant  Dudleigh,  I  have  trusted  you  ini- 
jdicitly,  and  I  trust  you  yet.  Come  to  me — 
save  me !" 

And  in  her  anguish  Edith  sank  down  upon 
her  knees,  and  held  out  her  arms  implor- 
ingly. 

"  Dudleigh  !"  she  moaned.  "  Oh,  my 
friend !  Oli,  only  ccmie — only  save  me  from 
this  villain,  and  I  will  love — I  will  love  aTid 
bless  you — I  will  be  your  menial— I  will — " 

"  Pooh !"  said  Leon,  "  I'm  the  only  Dud- 
leigh about.  If  you  know  half  as  much 
about  my  dcarfriind  the  lieutenant  as  I  do, 
you  would  know  what  infernal  nonsense  you 
are  talking  ;"  and  seizing  her  hand,  he  ti  icil 
to  raise  her.  "  Come,"  said  he,  "  up  with 
you." 

Edith  tried  to  loosen  her  hand,  whereupon 
Leon  dashed  it  away. 

"  Wiu)  wants  your  hand  T"  he  cried :  "  I'm 
your  husbaml,  not  your  lover." 

"  Lieutenant  Dudleigh  !"  moaned  Edith. 

"  Well,  lieutenant,"  said  Leon,  "  speak 
up.     Come  along.     Tell  her,  if  you  like." 

"  Lienteimnt  Dndleigli,  save  me." 

"Oh,  great  Heaven!"  said  a  voice  like 
that  of  the  one  whom  Edith  knew  as  Lieu- 
tenant Dudleigh — " oh,  gri^at  Heaven !  its 
too  mneh." 

"  Oh  ho !"  cried  Leon  :  "  so  you're  going  to 
blubber  too,  are  you  T  Mind,  now,  it's  all 
right  if  you  are  only  tnu'." 

"Oh,  L(^on,  how  yon  wring  my  heart!" 
cried  the  other,  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice. 

"  Lieutenant  Dndloigh  !"  erii-d  Edith 
again.  "Oh,  my  friend,  answer  mo!  Tell 
mo  that  it  is  all  a  lie.     Tell  nie — " 

But  Lieutenant  Dudleigh  flung  himself  on 
the  stone  pavement,  and  groaned  and  sobbed 
convulsively. 

"Conn,"  said  Leon,  stooping  and  lifting 
him  up;  "you  understand  all  this.  Don't 
you  go  on  blubbering  in  this  fashion.  I 
don't  mind  her,  and  you  nnistn't.  tJonie,  you 
tell  her,  for  she'll  keep  yelling  after  you  all 
night  till  you  do." 

Iii(>iitenant  Dudleigh  rose  at  this,  and 
lean<>d  heavily  u'    n  Leon's  arm. 

"  Yo)i  were  :jot — married — to — to — me," 
said  he  at  last. 


"What!  Tlien  you  too  were  false  all 
along  f"  said  Edith,  in  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  come  from  a  broken  heart. 

Tlie  false  fiiond  made  no  reply. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Dudleigh,"  said  Leon,  coolly, 
"for  your  information  I  will  simply  state 
that  the — ahem — lieutenant  here  is  my  very 
]  particular  friend — in  fact,  my  most  intimat<^ 
j  and  most  valued  friend — and  in  his  tender 
aflfeetiou  for  me  he  undertook  this  little  af- 
fair at  my  instigation.     It's  all  my  act,  all 
through,  every  bit  of  it,  but  the  carrying 
(lut  of  the  dotal"  1  was — ahem — his.     The 
marriage,  however,  is  perfectly  valid.     The 
j  banns  were  published  all  right.      So  you 
may  feel  quite  at  ease." 
I      "  Oh,"  cried  Edith,  "  how  basely,  how  ter- 
;  ribly,  I  have  been  deceived !     And  it  is  all 
^  lies !     It  was  all  lies,  lies,  lies  from  the  be- 
ginning!" 

Suddenly  a  fierce  thrill  of  indignation 
flashed  through  her.  She  started  to  her 
feet. 

"It  is  all  a  lie  fr<mi  beginning  to  end!" 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  which  was  totally 
changed  from  that  wail  of  despair  wliieli 
had  been  heard  once  before.  It  was  a  firm, 
l)roHd,  stern  voice.  She  had  fallen  back 
upon  her  t)wn  lofty  soul,  and  had  songht 
refuge  in  that  res<dute  nature  of  hers  which 
had  sustained  her  befcne  this  in  other  dire 
eniergi^ncies.  "Yes,"  she  said,  sternly,  "a 
lie;  and  this  mock-marriage  is  a  lie.  Vil- 
lains, stand  off.     I  am  going  home." 

"  Not  without  me,"  said  Leon,  who  for  a 
moment  stood  silent,  amazed  at  the  change 
in  Edith's  voice  and  manner.  "  You  nuist 
not  leave  your  husband." 

"  You  shall  not  come  to  Dalton  Hall,"  said 
Edith.  • 

"  I  shall  not  T     Who  can  keep  me  out  T" 

"Wiggins,"  said  Edith.  "I  will  ask  his 
protection  against  you." 

"Wiggins!"  sneered  Jjcon.  "Let  him  try 
it  if  he  dares." 

"Do  not  interfere  with  nie,"  said  Edith, 
"  nor  touch  me." 

"  Yon  shall  not  go  without  me." 

"  I  shall  go,  and  alone." 

"You  shall  not." 

Eilith  at  once  walked  to  the  door.  Just 
as  8ho  reached  it  Leon  seized  her  arm.  She 
sirnggh'd  for  a  moment  to  get  free,  but  in 
vain. 

"  I  know,"  said  she,  bitterly,  "  what  a 
coward  yon  are.  This  is  not  the  first  time 
that  you  have  laid  hands  on  me.  Let  me 
go  now,  or  yon  shall  rej)ent." 

"Not  the  first  tinu\  and  it  won't  bo  the 
last  tinu' !"  cried  Leon,  with  an  oath. 

"  Let  me  go,"  cried  Kditli,  in  a  tierce  voice, 
"  or  I  will  stab  yon  to  tlu!  heart !" 

As  sh(^  said  this  she  raised  her  right  hand 
swiftly  and  menacingly,  and  by  the  dim 
liglit  of  the  doorway  IjCou  plainly  saw  a 
long  keen  dagger.    In  an  instant  he  recoiled 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


98 


try 
itli, 


III 

it  a 
iiiic 
UH' 

tlie 

I  ice, 
111(1 
liin 
iled 


from  the  sight,  and  dropping  her  arm,  he 
started  back. 

"  Curse  you  !"  he  cried,  in  an  excited 
voice ;  "  who  wants  to  tout  '.i  you  T  It  isn't 
you  I've  married,  but  the  liall !" 

"Leon,"  cried  Lieute  ant  Dudleigh,  "I 
will  allow  no  violence.  If  there  is  any  more, 
I  will  betray  you." 

"  You !"  cried  Leon,  with  a  bitter  sneer. 
"  Pooh,  you  dare  not." 

"  I  dare." 

'•  You  will  betray  yourself,  then." 

"I  don't  care.  After  what  I've  suffered 
for  you  these  two  days  past,  and  especially 
tills  night,  I  have  but  little  care  left  about 
myself." 

"  But  won't  you  get  your  reward,  curse  it 
all?" 

"  There  can  bo  no  reward  for  me  now,  aft- 
er this,"  said  the  other,  in  a  mournful  voice. 

"Is  that  the  way  you  talk  to  met"  said 
Leon,  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"  Miss  Dalton  has  been  wronged  enough," 
said  the  other.  "  If  you  dare  to  annoy  her 
furtlicr,  or  to  liarm  a  hair  f)f  her  head,  I  sol- 
emnly declare  that  I  will  turn  against  you." 

"  You  !"  exclaimed  Leon. 

"  Yes,  I." 

"  Wliy,  you're  as  bad  as  I  am — in  fact, 
worse." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  it  shall  go  no  further. 
Tliat  I  am  resolved  on." 

"  Look  out,"  cried  Leon ;  "  don't  tempt  me 
too  far.  I'll  remember  this,  liy  Heaven  ' 
I'll  not  forget  that  you  liave  threatened  io 
betray  me." 

"  I  don't  care.  You  are  a  coward,  Leon, 
and  you  know  it.  You  are  afraid  of  that 
brave  girl.  Miss  Dalton  can  take  care  of 
lierself." 

"Miss  Dalton!  Pooh  !— Mrs.  Dudli,igh, 
you  mean." 

"Leon,  you  drive  me  to  frenzy,"  cried 
Lieutenant  Dudleigh,  in  a  wild,  impatient 
voice. 

"  And  you — what  are  you  T"  cried  Leon, 
morosely.  "  Are  you  not  always  tormenting 
me  T  Do  you  think  that  I'm  going  to  stand 
you  and  your  whims  forever  f  Look  out ! 
This  is  more  of  a  marriage  than  you  tliiiik." 

"  Marriage !"  cried  the  other,  in  a  voice  of 
scorn. 

"  Never  mind.  I'll  go  with  my  wife," 
suid  Leon. 

Ed  th  had  waited  a  few  moments  as  this 
aite'catioii  arose,  half  hoping  that  in  tlui 
'iaarrel  lietweeu  these  twosomi'thing  might 
escape  them  which  could  give  her  some  ray 
of  hope,  but  she  heard  nothing  of  tliat  kiiul. 
Yet  as  she  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  two, 
contrasting  so  strangely  in  their  tones,  and 
to  their  language,  which  was  so  very  pe- 
culiar, a  strange  suspicion  came  to  her  mind. 

Then  she  hurried  away  back  to  the  Hall. 

"I'll  go  with  my  wife,"  said  Leon. 

"Coward  aiul  villain!"  oiied  his  compan- 


ion, "  Miss  Dalton  hna  a  dagger.  You're 
afraid  of  her.  I'll  go  too,  so  that  you  may 
not  annoy  her." 

Ec^ith  hurried  away,  and  the  others  fol- 
lowed for  a  short  distance,  but  she  soon 
left  them  behind.  She  reached  the  little 
door  at  the  cast  end.  She  passed  through, 
and  bolted  it  on  the  inner  side.  She  hurried 
up  to  her  rooms,  and  ou  reaching  them  fell 
fainting  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  WIFE  OF   LEON  DVDLEIOn. 

Sickness  and  delirium  came  mercifully  to 
Edith ;  for  if  health  had  continued,  the 
sanity  of  the  body  would  liavo  been  pur- 
chased at  the  expense  of  that  of  the  mind. 
Mrs.  Dunbar  nursed  her  most  tenderly  and 
assiduously.  A  doctor  attended  her.  For 
long  weeks  she  lay  in  a  brain-fever,  between 
life  and  death.  In  the  delirium  that  dis- 
I  turbed  her  brain,  her  mind  wandered  back 
to  the  happy  days  at  Plympton  Terrace. 
Onc:>  more  she  played  about  the  beautiful 
shores  of  Derwentwater ;  once  more  she 
rambled  with  her  school-mates  under  the 
lofty  trees,  or  rode  along  through  winding 
avenues.  At  times,  however,  her  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  later  events  of  her  life  ;  and 
once  or  twice  to  that  time  of  horror  in  tho 
chapel. 

The  doctor  came  and  went,  and  satisfied 
himself  with  seeing  after  tho  things  that 
conduced  to  the  recovery  of  his  patient.  He 
was  from  London,  and  had  been  sent  for 
by  Wiggins,  who  had  in»  confidence  in  tho 
local  physicians.  At  length  thi;  disease  was 
quelled,  and  after  nearly  two  months  Edith 
began  to  be  conscious  of  her  situation.  She 
came  back  to  sensibility  with  feelings  of 
despair,  and  her  deep  agitation  of  soul  re- 
tarded her  recovery  very  greatly;  for  her 
thoughts  were  fierce  and  indignant,  anil  she 
occu]>ied  lierself",  as  soon  as  she  could  think, 
with  incessant  idaiis  for  escape.  At  last  she 
resolved  to  tell  the  doctor  all.  One  day 
when  he  came  she  began,  but,  unfortunately 
for  her,  before  she  had  sjioken  a  dozen  worils 
she  became  so  excited  that  she  almost  faint- 
ed. Tiiereiijion  the  doctor  very  jiroperly 
forbade  her  talking  about  any  of  her  af- 
fairs whatever  until  she  was  better.  "  Your 
friends,"  said  he.  "havecautioned  me  against 
this,  and  I  have  two  things  to  regard — their 
wishes  and  your  recovery."  Once  or  twice 
after  this  Edith  tried  to  speak  about  her 
situation,  but  the  doctor  |)rom]itly  checked 
her.     Soon  after  he  ceased  his  visits. 

In  s]iite  of  nil  drawbacks,  liowever,  sho 
gradually  recoveretl,  and  at  last  became  ablt^ 
to  move  about  the  room.  She  might  even 
have  gone  out  if  she  had  wished,  but  sho 
did  not  feel  inclined. 


94 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Olio  (lay,  while  looking  over  Bome  of  her 
bookM  wliich  were  lying  on  her  table,  she 
fonnd  a  newspaper  folded  inside  one  of 
them.  She  took  it  and  opened  it  curelcBsly, 
wondering  what  might  be  going  on  in  that 
outHide  world  of  wliich  she  had  known  bo 
little  for  BO  long  a  time.  A  mark  along  the 
margin  attracted  her  attention.  It  waB  near 
the  marriage  notices.  She  looked  there,  and 
saw  the  following: 

"On  the  12th  instant,  at  the  Daltun  family  chapel,  by 
the  V'-  John  Munn,  of  Dalton,  Captuin  L«:on  Diid- 
leig  l^dith,  only  daughter  of  the  late  Frederick 

Dalt^.i,  ^.Miuire,  of  Dalton  Ilall." 

This  paper  was  dated  November  20,  1840. 
This  wa«,  ob  she  knew,  February  26, 1841. 

The  horror  that  passed  through  her  at  the 
sight  of  this  was  only  inferior  to  that  which 
she  ha«l  felt  on  the  eventful  evening  '  elf. 
Hitherto  in  all  her  gloom  and  grief  she  nad 
regarded  it  as  a  mere  mockery — a  brutal 
kind  of  practical  joke,  devised  out  of  pure 
malignity,  and  perhaps  instigated  or  con- 
nived at  by  Wiggins.  She  had  never  cared 
to  think  much  about  it.  But  now,  on  being 
Mins  confronted  with  a  formal  notice  in  a 
public  newspaper,  the  whole  affair  Buddenly 
a«dumed  a  new  character — a  character  wliich 
was  at  once  terrible  in  itself,  and  menacing 
to  her  whole  future.  Tliis  formal  notice 
seemed  to  her  like  the  scial  of  the  law  on 
that  most  miserable  affair;  and  she  a«ked 
herself  in  dismay  if  such  a  ceremony  could 
be  lield  as  binding. 

She  had  thought  much  already  over  one 
thing  which  had  been  revealed  on  that 
eventful  evening.  The  name  Mowbray  was 
an  OBSunied  tme.  The  villain  who  had  taken 
it  now  called  himself  Leon  Dudleigh.  Un- 
der that  name  he  married  her,  and  under 
that  name  his  marriage  was  published.  His 
friend  and  her  Iw^trayer — that  most  misera- 
ble scoundrel  who  had  called  himself  Lieu- 
t«nant  Dudleigh — had  gained  her  consent  to 
this  marriage  for  the  exjiress  purpose  of  be- 
traying her  into  the  hands  of  her  worst  en- 
emy. His  name  might  or  might  not  be  Dud- 
leigh, but  she  now  saw  that  the  true  name 
of  the  other  must  be  Dudleigh,  and  that 
Mowbray  liad  been  assumed  for  some  other 
purpose.  But  how  he  came  by  such  a  name 
she  could  not  tell.  She  hud  no  knowledge 
whatever  of  Sir  Lionel ;  and  whether  Leon 
was  any  relation  to  him  or  not  she  was  to- 
tally ignorant. 

Til  is  gave  a  rew  and  most  painful  turn  to 
all  her  thoughts,  and  she  bega.i  to  feel  anx- 
ious to  know  what  had  occurred  since  that 
evening.  Accordingly,  on  Mrs.  Dunbar's  re- 
turn to  her  room,  she  began  to  question  her. 
Tlius  far  slie  had  said  but  little  to  this  wom- 
an, wlioin  for  so  long  a  time  she  had  regarded 
with  suspicion  and  aversion.  Mrs.  Dnnbar's 
long  and  anxious  care  of  her,  her  constant 
watelifuliums,  her  eager  in(iuiries  after  her 
health — all  availed  nothing,  since  all  seemed 


to  be  nothing  more  than  the  selfish  anxiety 
of  a  jailer  about  the  health  of  a  prisoner 
whose  life  it  may  be  his  interest  to  guard. 

'  Who  sent  this  T"  asked  Edith,  sternly, 
pointing  to  the  paper. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  hesitated,  and  after  one  hasty 
glance  at  Edith  her  eyes  sought  the  floor. 

"  The  captain,"  said  she  at  length. 

"  The  captain  T — what  captain  T"  asked 
Edith. 

"  Captain — Dudleigh,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
with  the  same  hesitation. 

Edith  paused.  Tliis  confirmed  her  suspi- 
cions a«  to  his  true  name.  "  Where  is  he 
now  t"  she  asked  at  length. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
"  where  he  is — just  now." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  hero  T"  asked  Edith, 
after  another  pause. 

"  Ever  been  here !"  repeated  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
looking  again  at  Editli  with  something 
like  surjirise.  "Why,  he  lives  here — now. 
I  thoiigiit  you  knew  tliat." 

"  Lives  here !"  exclaimed  Edith. 

"  Yes." 

Edith  was  silent.  This  was  very  nn- 
pleasan'.  intelligence.  Evidently  this  Leon 
lludleigh  and  Wiggins  were  partners  in  this 
horrible  matter. 

"  How  does  he  happen  to  live  here  V  she 
ajked  at  length,  anxious  to  discover,  if  pos- 
sible, his  purpose. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  again  hesitated.  Edith  had 
to  repeat  her  ciuestion,  and  even  tli»  n  her 
answer  was  given  with  evident  reluctance. 

"He  says  that  you — I  mean  that  he — is 
your— that  is,  that  he  is— is  master,"  said 
Mrs.  Dunbar,  in  a  hesitating  and  confused 
way. 

"  Master !"  repeated  Edith. 

"  He  says  that  he  is  your — your — "  Mrs. 
Dunbar  hesitated  and  looked  anxiously  at 
Editli. 

"  Well,  what  does  he  say  T"  asked  Edith, 
impatiently.  "He  says  that  he  is  inv — 
what  f" 

"  Your — your  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar, with  a  great  effort. 

At  this  Edith  stared  at  her  for  a  moment, 
and  then  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
while  a  shudder  passed  t'lJ-ough  her.  This 
plain  statement  of  the  case  fnun  (me  of  her 
Jailers  made  her  situation  seem  worse  than 
ever. 

"  He  came  here,"  continued  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
in  a  low  tone,  "  the  day  after  your  illness. 
He  brought  his  horse  and  dog,  and  some 
things." 

Edith  looked  np  with  a  face  of  agony. 

"He  said,"  continued  Mrs.  Dunbar,  "that 
you  were — married — to  —  him;  that  you 
were  now  his  —his  wife,  and  that  he  intend- 
ed to  live  at  the  Hall." 

"  Is  that  otlierone  here  too  t"  asked  Edith, 
after  a  long  silence. 

"  What  other  one  f" 


. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


95 


Irs. 
at 

itb, 


'liis 
her 

|)nr, 

BBS. 


Hint 

LOU 


Itb. 


"  The  smaller  villain — the  one  that  used 
to  call  himself  Lieutenant  Dudleigh." 

Mrs.  Dunbar  shook  her  head. 

"  Do  you  kuow  the  real  name  of  that  per- 
son t" 

"  No." 

Edith  now  said  nothing  for  a  long  time ; 
and  as  she  sat  there,  buried  in  her  own  mis- 
erable thoughts,  Mrs.  Dunbar  looked- at  her 
with  a  face    uU  of  sml  and  earnest  sympa- 
thy— a  face  which  had  a  certain  longing, 
wistful  expression,  as  though   she   yearned 
over  this  stricken  heart,  and  longed  to  otter 
some  consolation.     But  Edith,  even  if  she 
had  been  willing  to  receive  any  expressions 
of  sympathy  from  one  like  Mrs.  Dunbar,  I 
whom  she  regarded  as  a  miserable  tool  of  | 
her  oppressor,  or  a  base  ally,  was  too  far 
down  in  the  depths  of  her  own  profimnd  af- ! 
jtliction  to  be  capable  of  consolation.     Bad  | 
enough  it  was  alrea<ly,  wbeti  she  had  to  look  ! 
back  over  so  long  a  course  of  deceit  and  be-  ' 
trayal  at  the  hands  of  one  whom  she  had  re- 
garded as  her  best  friend  ;  but  now  to  find 
that  all  this  treachery  had  culminated  in  a 
horror  like  this,  that  she  was  claimed  and 
proclaimed  by  an  outrageous  villain  as  his  j 
wife — this  was  beyond  all  endurance.     The 
blackness  of  that  perfidy,  and  the  terror  of 
her  memories,  which  till  now  had  wrung  her 
heart,  fled  away,  and  gave  place  to  the  most 
passionate  indignation. 

And  now,  at  the  impulse  of  these  more 
fervid  feelings,  her  whole  outraged  nature 
underwent  a  change.  Till  now  she  ha<l  felt 
most  strongly  the  emotions  of  grief  and  mel- 
ancholy ;  now,  however,  these  passed  away, 
and  were  succeeded  by  an  intensity  of  hate, 
a  vehemence  of  wrath,  and  a  hot  glow  of  in- 
dignant passion  that  swept  away  all  other 
feelings.  All  the  pride  of  her  hatighty  spir- 1 
it  was  roused  ;  her  soul  became  instinct  with 
a  desperate  resolve ;  and  mingling  with 
these  feelings  there  was  a  scorn  for  her  ene- 
mies as  beings  of  a  baser  nature,  and  a  sttib- 
born  determination  to  fight  them  all  till  the 
bitter  end. 

All  this  change  was  manifest  in  her  look 
and  tone  as  she  again  addressed  Mrs.Dunbnr. 

"  You  have  all  mistaken  me,"  said  she, 
with  bitter  hostility;  "you  have  imagined 
that  you  had  to  deal  with  some  silly  child. 
But  this  shall  do  none  of  you  any  good.  You 
may  kill  me  among  you,  but  I  am  not  afraid 
to  die.  Death  itself  will  be  welcome  rather 
than  submission  to  that  foul  miscreant,  that 
vulgar  coward,  who  takes  advantage  of  a 
contemptible  trick,  and  pretends  that  there 
was  a  marriage.  I  say  this  to  you — that  I 
defy  him  and  all  of  you,  and  will  defy  you 
all — yes,  to  the  bitter  end ;  and  you  may  go 
and  tell  this  to  your  wretched  confederates." 

As  Edith  said  this,  Mrs.  Dunbar  looked  at 
her ;  and  if  there  could  have  ajiijcared  upon 
that  face  the  signs  of  a  wounded  heart — a 
heart  cut  and  stung  to  its  inmost  tibre — the 


face  that  confronted  Edith  showed  all  this 
at  that  moment. 

"  Confederates !"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,  you  and  Wiggins  and  this  villain 
who,  you  say,  is  now  living  here." 

"  What,  Leon  1" 

"  Leon  t  Is  that  his  name  t  Leon  Dud- 
leigh t  Well,  whatever  name  he  choosi  s  to 
bear,  it  is  all  the  sumo ;  though  it  seems 
strange  that  he  should  adopt  a  stainless 
name  like  that  of  Dudleigh." 

"  Yes,  that  is  his  name,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
wearily. 

"  Till  he  assumes  some  other,"  said  Edith. 
"  But  they  aro  all  assumed  names,"  she  con- 
tinued, bitterly — "  Mowbray  and  Dudleigh 
and  Dunbar  also,  no  doubt.  Why  you 
should  call  yourself  Dunbar  I  can't  imagine. 
You  seem  to  nie  to  be  Mrs.  Wiggins.  Wig- 
gins at  least  can  not  be  an  assumed  name." 

At  these  words,  which  were  spoken  on  the 
spur  f  the  moment,  out  of  mere  hostility  to- 
wanl  Mrs.  Dunbar,  and  the  desire  to  wound 
her,  the  latter  recoiled  as  though  from  some 
sudden  blow,  and  looked  at  Edith  with  aw- 
ful eyes. 

"  You  are  terrible," she  said,  in  a  low  voice 
— "  you  are  terrible.  You  can  not  imagine 
what  horrors  yon  give  expression  to." 

To  this  Edith  paid  no  attention.  It 
sounded  old.  It  was  like  what  Wiggins  had 
frequently  said  to  her. 

"I  can  not  imagine,"  she  continiUMl,  "any 
human  being  so  utterly  bad-hearted,  so  alto- 
gether vile  and  corrupt,  as  this  man  who 
now  culls  himself  Leon  Dudleigh.  In  pure 
fiendish  nudignity,  and  in  all  those  ipialities 
which  are  abliorrent  and  shameful,  lie  sur- 
passes even  that  arch-villain  Wiggins  him- 
self." 

"  Stop,  stop !"  cried  Mrs.  Dunbar.  "  I  can 
not  bear  this.  You  must  not  talk  so.  How 
do  you  know?  You  know  nothing  about 
Leon.  Oh,  how  yon  wrong  him!  Leon  has 
liatl  bad  associates,  but  he  himself  is  not  ba»l. 
After  all,  Leon  has  naturally  a  noble  heart. 
He  was  a  brave,  high-minded  boy.  Oh,  if 
you  could  but  know  what  he  once  was.  You 
wrong  I^on.  You  wrong  him  most  deeply. 
Ob,  how  deeply  you  wrong  him!" 

Mrs.  Dunbar  had  said  all  this  in  a  kiiul 
of  feverish  agitation,  s]>eaking  (luickly  and 
vehemently.  Never  before  hud  Edith  seen 
any  thing  approaching  to  excitenuuit  in  this 
strong-hearted,  vigilant-eyed,  self-contained 
woman,  aiul  the  sight  of  such  emotion 
amazed  her.  But  for  this  woman  and  her 
feelings  she  cared  nothing  whatever;  and 
so  in  the  midst  of  her  wonls  she  waved  her 
hand  and  interrupted  her. 

"  I'm  tired,"  she  said  ;  *'  I  can  not  stand 
any  mora  excitement  just  now.  I  wish  to 
be  alone." 

At  this  Mrs.  Dunbar  arose  and  walked 
wearily  out  of  the  room. 

One  thing  at  least  Edith  considciod  as 


06 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


quite  evident  from  Mrs.  DTUibar's  agitation 
and  eager  cliiiiMpioiiHhip  of  "  Leon,"  and  that 
wat«  that  tliiH  Leon  had  all  along  been  aeon- 
federate  of  WigginH  and  thitt  wonmn,  and 
that  the  so-called  "Lieutenant  DiuUeigh" 
liad  been  one  of  the  Hanie  band  of  couMpirn- 
tors.  It  seemed  evident  now  to  her  that 
the  whole  ])l()t  had  been  contrived  among 
them.  PerliapH  Wiggins  was  to  get  one 
half  of  the  estate,  and  this  Leou  Dudleigh 
th«i  other  half. 

Still  she  did  not  feel  altogether  sure,  and 
in  onl«!r  to  ascertain  as  near  as  possible  the 
truth  iw  to  her  present  position  and  pros- 
pects, she  dcteiiuined  to  see  Wiggins  himself. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

JAILER  AND  CAPTIVE. 

On  the  following  day  Edith  felt  stronger, 
and  calling  Mrs.  Dunbar,  she  sent  her  to  Wig- 
gins with  a  request  that  the  latter  should 
inettt  her  in  the  drawing-room.  She  then 
walked  through  the  long  hall  on  her  way 
down  stairs.  Every  thing  looked  as  it  did 
before  her  illness,  except  that  one  change  had 
taken  place  which  arrested  her  attention  the 
moment  she  entered  the  drawing-room. 

Over  the  chimney-piece  a  portrait  had 
hcMX  hung — a  portrait  in  a  large  gilt  frame, 
which  looked  as  though  it  had  been  painted 
but  recently.  It  was  a  portrait  of  Leon  Dud- 
leigh. On  catching  sight  of  this  she  felt  as 
if  she  had  been  rooted  to  the  spot.  She 
looked  at  it  for  a  short  time  with  compressed 
lijis,  frowning  brow,  and  clinched  hands, 
after  which  she  walked  away  and  flung  her- 
self into  a  chair. 

Wiggins  w.as  evidently  in  no  hurry,  for  it 
was  more  than  half  an  hour  before  he  nuide 
his  ai)pearancc.  Edith  sat  in  her  chair,  wait- 
ing for  his  approach.  The  traces  of  her  re- 
cent illness  were  very  visible  in  the  pallor 
of  her  face,  aiul  in  her  thin,  transparent 
hands.  H<!r  large  eyes  seemed  larger  than 
over,  as  they  glowed  luminously  fnmi  their 
cavernous  dej)ths,  with  a  darker  hue  arouiul 
each,  as  is  ofttMi  seen  in  cases  of  sickness  or 
debility,  while  upon  her  face  there  was  an 
expression  of  i)rofound  sadness  that  seemed 
fixed  and  unalterable. 

Hut  in  the  tone  with  which  she  addressed 
Wiggins  there  was  nothing  like  sadness.  It 
was  i)roud,  cold,  stern,  and  full  of  bitterest 
hostility. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,"  she  began,"  becauso 
yon,  Wiggins,  are  concerned  as  mtich  a»  I  '.iiy- 
solf  am  in  the  issue  of  this  business  about 
which  I  am  going  to  speak.  T  I.avo  sulVered 
n  very  gross  outrage,  but  I  still  have  confi- 
dence both  in  a  just  Heaven  ami  in  the  laws 
of  the  land.  This  rutlian,  who  now  it  seems 
calls  himself  Leon  Dudleigh— your  conf«'d- 
orate — has,  with  your   assistance,  clieated 


me  into  taking  part  in  a  ceremony  which  he 
calls  a  marriage.  What  you  propose  to  gain 
for  yourself  by  this  I  can  not  inmgine  ,  for 
it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  have  been  rath- 
er for  your  a<lvautage  to  remain  the  solo 
master  of  your  ward  than  to  help  some  one 
else  to  share  your  authority.  But  for  your 
purposes  I  care  nothing — the  evil  is  done. 
Yet  if  this  Leon  Dudleigh  or  you  think  that 
I  will  sit  tamely  down  under  such  an  int^il- 
erable  wrong,  you  are  miserably  mistaken. 
Sooner  or  later  I  shall  be  avenged.  SiMiner 
or  later  I  shall  gain  my  freedom,  aud  then 
my  turn  shall  come.  I  wish  you  to  see  that 
there  is  danger  before  you ;  and  I  wish  you 
also^to  understand  that  it  is  for  your  inter- 
est to  be  my  sole  master,  as  you  were  before. 
I  have  sent  for  you,  then,  to  ask  yon,  Wig- 
gins, to  expel  this  man  Leon  Dudleigh  from 
the  house.  Be  my  guardian  again,  and  I 
will  be  your  ward.  More :  I  agree  to  remain 
here  in  a  state  of  passive  endurance  for  a 
reasonable  time — one  or  two  years,  for  in- 
stan<;e;  ami  I  promise  during  that  time  to 
make  no  complaint.  Do  this — drive  this 
man  away — and  you  shall  have  no  reason 
to  regret  it.  On  the  other  hand,  remember 
there  is  an  alternative.  Villain  though  this 
man  is,  I  may  come  to  terms  with  him,  and 
buy  my  liberty  from  him  by  giving  him  half 
of  the  estate,  or  oven  the  whole  of  it.  In 
that  ca.se  it  seems  to  me  that  you  would  lose 
every  thing,  for  Leon  Dudleigh  is  as  great  a 
villain  as  yourself." 

As  Edith  spoke,  Wiggins  listened  most  at- 
tentively. He  had  seated  himself  not  far 
from  her,  and  after  one  look  at  her  hud  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  floor.  He  waited  patiently 
until  she  had  said  all  she  wished  to  say. 
Edith  herself  had  not  hoped  to  gain  much 
by  this  interview,  but  she  hoped  at  least  to 
be  aide  to  discover  something  concerning  the 
nature  of  the  partnership  which  she  sup- 
posed to  exist  among  her  enemies,  and  some- 
thing perhaps  about  their  plans.  The  avert- 
ed face  of  Wiggins  seemed  to  her  the  atti- 
tude of  conscious  guilt ;  but  she  felt  a  little 
puzzled  at  signs  of  emotion  which  he  exhib- 
ited, aud  v.'liich  seemed  hardly  the  result  of 
conscious  guilt.  Once  or  twice  a  percepti- 
ble shudder  passed  through  his  frame ;  his 
bent  head  bowed  lower;  he  covered  his  face 
with  'lis  hands ;  and  at  her  last  words  there 
<'amr  from  him  a  low  moan  that  seemed  to 
indicate  sufi'ering. 

'■  It's  his  acting,"  she  tlionght.  "  I  won- 
'ler  what  his  next  pretense  will  be?" 

Wiggins  sat  for  some  minutes  without 
saying  a  word.  When  at  length  he  raised 
his  head  he  did  not  look  at  Edith,  but  fast- 
ened his  eyes  on  vacancy,  and  went  on  to 
speak  in  a  low  voice. 

"Your  remarks,"  said  he,  "are  all  based 
on  a  inisconcepti<m.  This  man  is  no  con- 
federate of  mine.  I  have  no  c<nifederate. 
I  —I  work  out  my  purpose — by  myself." 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


97 


"  I'm  sure  I  wish  that  I  could  heliove  this," 
said  Edith ;  "  but  uufortuiiatcly  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar espouses  his  cause  with  so  much  warmth 
and  enthusiasm  that  I  am  forced  to  conclude 
that  this  Leon  Dudlei(;h  must  be  a  very  high- 
ly valued  or  very  valuable  friend  to  both  of 
you." 

"  In  this  case,"  said  Wiggins,  "  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar and  I  have  diiferent  feelings." 

Instead  of  feeling  gratified  at  this  dis- 
claimer of  any  connection  with  Leon  Dud- 
leigh,  Edith  felt  dissatisfied,  and  somewhat 
disconcerted.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Wig- 
gins was  trying  to  baffle  her  and  throw  her 
oif  the  right  truck.  She  had  hoped  that  by 
speaking  out  frankly  her  whole  mind  she 
might  induce  him  to  come  to  some  agreement 
with  her ;  but  by  his  answers  she  saw  that 
he  was  not  in  the  least  degree  aflfected  by 
her  warnings,  or  her  threats,  or  her  offers. 

"This  Leon  Dudleigh,"  said  she,  "has  all 
along  acted  sufliciently  like  a  confederate 
of  yours  to  make  mo  think  that  he  is  one." 

"  How  t" 

"By  coming  into  these  grounds  at  all 
times ;  by  having  privileges  equal  in  all  re- 
spects to  your  own ;  by  handing  over  those 
privileges  to  his  spy  and  emissary — the  one 
who  took  the  name  of  Lieutenant  Dudleigh. 
Surely  uU  this  is  enough  to  make  me  think 
that  he  must  bo  your  confederate." 

"  You  are  altogether  mistaken,"  said  Wig- 
gins, quietly. 

"  He  told  some  idle  story  once,"  said  Edith, 
anxious  to  draw  more  out  of  Wiggins  than 
these  short  answers,  "about  some  power 
which  he  had  over  you.  He  asserted  that 
you  were  afraid  of  him.  He  said  that  you 
dared  not  keep  him  out  of  the  ])ark.  He 
said  that  his  power  over  you  arose  from  his 
knowledge  of  certain  past  crimes  of  yours." 

"  When  he  said  that,"  remarked  Wiggins, 
"he  said  what  was  false." 

"Why,  then,  did  you  allow  him  to  come 
heref" 

"  I  did  so  for  reasons  that  I  do  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  explain — ^.just  now.  I  will  only 
say  that  the  reasons  were  altogether  differ- 
ent from  those  which  he  stated." 

Of  this  Editli  did  not  believe  a  word ;  yet 
she  felt  completely  baffled,  and  did  not  know 
what  to  say  to  this  man,  who  thus  met  all 
her  assertions  with  denials,  and  spoke  in  the 
calm,  lofty  tone  of  conscious  truth.  But  this, 
she  thought,  was  only  his  "  acting." 

"I  only  hope  that  this  is  so,"  said  she; 
"but  supposing  that  it  is  so,  I  should  like 
very  much  to  know  what  you  feel  disposed 
to  <lo.  The  claim  that  this  ni.an  asserts  over 
mo  is  utterly  false.  It  is  a  mockerj*.  If  ho 
is  really  not  your  confederate,  you  will  see, 
I  am  sure,  that  it  is  not  for  your  own  inter- 
*'Mt  to  sustain  him  in  his  attempt  to  maintain 
his  claim.  I  wish,  therefore,  to  know  exact- 
ly what  it  is  that  you  feel  willing  to  do." 

"  Your  situation,"  said  Wiggins,  "  is  a 
G 


most  unhappy  one.  I  will  do  all  that  I  can 
to  prevent  it  from  becoming  more  so.  If 
this  man  annoys  you,  I  will  'defend  yea 
against  him,  whatever  it  may  cost." 

This  sounded  well ;  yet  still  Edith  was  not 
satisfied.  It  seemed  to  her  too  much  like  an 
empty  promise  which  he  had  no  idea  of  ful- 
filling. 

"  How  will  you  defend  me  T"  she  asked. 
"  This  man  lives  here  now.  He  asserts  that 
he  has  the  right  to  do  so.  He  has  published 
what  he  calls  my  marriage  to  him  in  the 
newspapers.  Ho  culls  himself  my  husband. 
All  this  is  a  wrong  and  an  insult  to  me.  His 
presence  here  ii  a  perpetual  menace.  When 
he  is  absent  he  leaves  a  reminder  of  himself," 
she  continued,  in  a  more  bitter  tone,  glancing 
toward  the  portrait.  "  Now  I  wish  to  know 
what  you  will  do.  Will  you  prevent  him 
from  coming  here  T  Will  you  s«M»d  him 
away,  either  in  your  nanui  or  in  minef 
You  are  easily  able  to  keep  out  my  friends ; 
will  you  keep  out  my  enemi»'s?" 

"This  man,"  said  Wiggins,  "shall  soon 
give  you  no  more  trouble." 

"Soon  —  what  do  you  mean  by  soon  T" 
asked  Edith,  impatiently. 

"As  soon  as  my  plans  will  allow  mo  to 
proceed  to  extremities  with  him." 

"  Your  plans !"  repeated  Edith.  "  You  are 
always  bringing  up  your  plans.  Whatever 
is  concerned,  you  plead  your  plans.  They 
form  a  sufficient  excuse  for  you  to  refuse 
tlie  commonest  justice.  And  yet  what  I 
ask  is  certainly  for  your  own  interests." 

"  If  you  knew  me  better,"  said  Wiggins, 
"  you  would  not  appeal  to  my  interests.  I 
have  not  generally  fashioned  n\y  life  with 
regard  to  my  own  advantage.  Some  day 
you  will  see  this.  You,  at  least,  should  be 
the  last  one  to  complain  of  my  jtlans,  since 
they  refer  exclusively  to  the  vindication  of 
your  injured  father." 

"So  you  have  said  before,"  said  Edith, 
coldly.  "Those  plans  must  be  very  con- 
venient, since  you  use  them  to  excuse  every 
possible  act  of  yours." 

"You  will  not  have  to  wait  long  now," 
said  Wiggins,  in  a  weary  voice,  as  though 
this  interview  was  too  nnich  for  his  endur- 
ance— "  not  very  long.  I  have  heard  to-<lay 
of  something  whic-b  is  vc-ry  favorable.  Since 
the  trial  certain  doennicnts  and  other  arti- 
cles have  been  kept  by  the  authorities,  and 
an  application  has  been  made  for  these,  with 
a  view  to  the  establishment  of  your  father's 
innocence.  I  have  recently  heard  that  the 
ap])lication  is  about  to  bo  granted." 

"  You  always  answer  my  appeals  for  com- 
mon justice,"  said  Edith,  with  nnehangitd 
coldness,  "  by  8«)me  reference  to  my  father. 
It  seems  to  me  that  if  you  hsul  wished  to 
vindicate  his  innocence,  it  would  have  been 
better  to  do  so  while  he  was  alive.  If  you 
had  done  so,  it  might  have  been  better  for 
yourself  iu  the  end.     But  now  these  ullu- 


96 


THE  LIVraG  LINK. 


HioDS  are  idle  and  worse  than  ubcIcbs.  They 
have  no  effect  on  me  whatever.  I  value  them 
at  what  they  are  worth." 

With  these  wonls  Edith  rose  and  left  the 
room.  She  returned  to  her  own  apartments 
with  a  feeling  of  profound  dejection  and  dis- 
appointment. Of  Wi^Kins  slie  could  make 
nothing.  Ho  promised,  but  his  promises 
were  t(M)  vague  to  afford  satisfaction. 

Leon  Dudleigh  was  away  now,  but  would 
probably  be  back  before  long.  As  she  had 
failed  with  Wiggins,  only  one  thing  re- 
mained, and  that  was  to  see  Leon.  She 
was  resolved  to  meet  him  at  once  on  his  ar- 
rival, and  light  out  once  for  all  that  battle 
which  was  inevitable  between  herself  and 
him. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

THE  IllUKPKESSini.K   STIIUGOLE. 

Auoi'T  a  month  passeil  away,  during 
which  time  Edith,  in  spite  of  her  troubles, 
grew  stronger  every  day.  Youth  and  a  good 
constitution  were  on  her  side,  and  enabled 
her  to  rally  rapidly  from  the  prostration  to 
which  she  hud  been  subjected. 

At  length  one  morning  she  learned  that 
Leon  had  arrived  at  the  Hall.  This  news 
gave  ho'  great  satisfaction,  for  she  had  been 
waiting  long,  and  felt  anxious  to  see  him 
face  to  face,  to  tell  him  her  own  mind,  and 
gather  from  him,  if  possible,  Mhut  his  inten- 
tions were.  An  interview  with  him  under 
such  peculiar  circumstances  might  have  been 
])aiuful  had  she  been  less  courageous  or  less 
self-possessed ;  but  to  one  with  such  lofty 
pride  as  hers,  and  filled  us  she  was  with  such 
scorn  of  Leon,  and  convinced  as  she  was 
that  he  was  at  heart  an  airant  coward,  such 
an  interview  had  nothinjj;  in  it  to  deter  her. 
Suspense  was  worse.  She  wishe<l  to  meet 
that  man. 

She  sent  word  to  him  that  she  wished  to 
see  him,  after  which  she  went  down  to  the 
drawing-room  and  waited.  Leon  certainly 
showed  no  haste,  for  it  was  as  much  as  an 
hour  before  he  made  his  appearance.  On 
entering  ho  assumed  that  languid  air  which 
he  had  adopted  on  some  of  his  former  visits. 
He  looked  carelessly  at  her,  and  then  threw 
himself  into  a  chair. 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Dudleigh,"  said  he,  "  this  is 
an  unexpected  jilcasure.  'Pon  my  life,  I  hud 
no  idea  that  yon  would  volunteer  to  do  me 
80  nnieh  honor !" 

"  I  am  not  Mrs.  Dudleigh,"  said  Edith, 
"  as  you  very  well  know.  I  am  Miss  Dal- 
ton,  and  if  you  expect  me  to  have  any  thing 
to  say  to  you,  you  must  call  me  by  my  pro))- 
or  name.  You  will  suffer  dearly  enough  yet 
for  your  crimes,  and  have  no  need  to  a<ld  to 
them." 

"  Now,  my  dear,"  said  Leon,  "  th.at  is  kind 
and  wife-like,  and  all  that.     It  reminds  me 


of  the  way  in  which  wives  Rometimos  speak 
in  the  plays." 

"  Speak  to  me  as  Miss  Dalton,  or  you  shall 
not  sjteak  to  me  at  all." 

"  It's  quite  evident,"  said  Leon,  with  a 
sneer,  "that  you  don't  know  Into  whoee 
hands  you've  fallen." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  Edith, cnntemptu- 
OHsly,  "  it  has  been  my  fortune,  or  my  misfor- 
tune, to  understand  from  the  first  both  you 
and  Wiggins." 

Leon  gave  a  light  laugh. 

"  Your  temper,"  said  he, "  has  not  improved 
much,  at  any  rate.  That's  «iuite  evident. 
You  have  always  shown  a  very  peculiar  idea 
of  the  way  in  which  a  lady  should  speak  to 
n  gentleman." 

"  One  would  suppose  by  that,"  said  Edith, 
"that  you  actually  meant  to  hint  that  you 
considered  yourself  a  gentleman." 

"So  I  am,"  said  Leon,  haughtily. 

"  As  yon  have  no  particular  birth  or  fami- 
ly," said  Edith,  in  her  most  insolent  tone,  "  I 
suppose  yon  must  rest  your  claims  to  be  a 
gentleman  altogether  on  your  good  manners 
and  high-toned  character." 

"Birth  and  family!"  exclaimed  Leon,  ex- 
citedly— "  what  do  you  know  about  them  ? 
You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  you,  certainly," 
said  Edith.  "  I  suppose  you  are  some  mere 
adventurer." 

Le(m  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  a 
glance  of  intense  rage;  and  as  she  calndy 
returned  his  gaze,  she  noticed  that  iieculiur- 
ity  of  his  frowning  brow — a  red  spot  in  the 
middle,  with  deep  lines. 

"  You  surely  in  your  wildest  dreams,"  said 
she,  "  never  supposed  that  I  took  you  for  a 
gentleman." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  cried  Leon,  stammer- 
ing in  liis  ])aNsiou — "  let  nu)  tell  you  that  I 
associate  with  the  proudest  in  the  land." 

"  I  know  that,"  rejilied  Edith,  quietly. 
"Am  I  not  hereT  But  you  are  only  toler- 
ated." 

"  Miss  Dalton,"  cried  Leon, "  you  shall  suf- 
fer for  this." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Edith :  "  for  once  in 
your  life  you  have  spoken  to  me  without  in- 
sulting me.  You  have  called  nie  by  my  right 
name.  I  could  smile  ut  y(mr  threat  under 
any  circumstances,  but  now  I  can  forgive 
it." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  growled  Leon,  "  that 
you  are  riding  the  high  horse  somewhat, 
and  that  this  is  a  rather  queer  tone  for 
you  to  assume  toward  me." 

"  I  always  assume  a  high  tone  toward  low 
people." 

"  Low  people !  What  do  yon  mean  t"  cried 
Leon,  his  face  purple  with  rage. 

"I  really  don't  know  any  name  better 
than  that  for  you  and  your  friends." 

"Tlie  name  of  Dudleigh,"  said  Leon,  "la 
one  of  the  proudest  in  the  laud." 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


99 


Uu  suf- 

l>nce  in 
liont  in- 

uiulur 
|f()igivo 

'  that 
Lewliitt, 
1)110  for 

Lrd  low 

I"  cried 

bettor 

an,  "  is 


"Certainly  it  is — but  how  did  you  come 
by  it  T" 

"  What  do  you  mean !"  cried  Leon,  with 
an  oath. 

"  Well,  captain,"  said  Edith,  "  or  whatev- 
er elHu  you  call  yonrHclf,  are  you  quite  Hure 
that  you  know  yourself  whether  your  name 
ia  Mowbray  or  DudleighT  How  am  I  to 
know  any  thing  about  a  peruou  who  haa  ho 
many  aliases  f" 

At  thiH  Leon  started  from  his  scat  with  a 
menacing  gesture. 

"This  seems  like  real  excitement,"'  said 
Kditli,  coolly.  "Yoi.  are  usually  so  languid, 
you  know.  But  how  strange  it  is  that  you 
■should  become  excited  about  such  things  as 
these — mere  nanu^s,  which  you  amuse  your- 
Hclf  by  adopting  and  changing  ti'om  time  to 
time." 

"  You  don't  api)ear  to  have  found  out  who 
I  am,"  said  Leon.  '•  You'll  know  soon  enough, 
liowever,  and  so  there's  no  need  for  me  to 
take  the  trouble  to  tell  you.  Meanwhile 
Nome  one  appears  to  have  stuti'od  you  with 
.some  infernal  lies  about  me." 

"  What  I  have  Ixeard  about  you  may  pos- 
sibly have  been  of  that  character ;  for  it  cer- 
tainly belonged  to  every  thing  1  have  over 
heard  from  you." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  hint  that  I  am  a  liar  T" 

"  The  hint  was  rather  a  strong  one,"  said 
Edith,  quietly. 

"  You  shall  suffer  for  this !" 

"  There  will  be  suffering  somewhere,  be- 
yond a  doubt,  befon*  this  is  over." 

"  Ycni  don't  know  me  yet,  my  lady,"  said 
Leon,  fiercely. 

"  Tiuit's  the  Hopond  time  you've  taken  the 
trouble  to  say  that.  Pray  what  poNsibh) 
difterence  can  it  make  to  me  whether  1  do 
or  not  T" 

"  You'll  see,"  muttered  Leon,  savagely. 
'*  What  others  have  felt,  you  shall  fei;!." 

"You  are  really  (juite  tragic," said  Edith, 
who  was  dt^liberatt^iy  bent  on  taunting  him 
to  the  ntinost,  in  the  hope  that  in  his  anger 
she  might  make  him  disclose  stunething  that 
would  be  of  use  to  her.  "You  are  quite 
tragic.  Have  you  over  been  on  the  stage, 
pi'ay  T     It  looks  a  little  like  it." 

"  You  shall  suffer  for  all  this !"  growled 
Leon  again. 

"  I  liave  no  doubt  that  you  will  do  your 
host  to  make,  me  suffer,  under  any  circum- 
stances," said  Edith. 

"  Yes,"  said  Leon,  with  a  sneer,  "  I  think 
I  can  Hatter  myself  that  I  have  already  done 
something  in  that  way.  For  instance,  how 
do  you  like  it,  Mrs.  Dudleigh,  to  see  nu)  as 
your  husband  f  How  do  you  like  that, 
eh  f 

"  I  imagine,"  said  Edith,  with  unalterable 
placidity,  "  that  you  have  as  nuu-h  right  to 
the  title  of  husband  as  you  have  to  any  one 
of  your  other  pretended  names,  such  ivs 
Mowbray  or   Dudleigh.     As  to   what   you 


have  done,  that  will  be  accounted  for  when 
the  time  comes." 

"  Oh  yes — ha,  ha — when  the  time  comes. 
Well,  if  you  can  wait,  I  can." 

Edith  rose. 

"  Wiggins  and  you,"  said  she,  contemptu- 
ously, "  have  some  sort  of  partnershi|>  or  un- 
derstanding just  now,  but  you  don't  seem  to 
agree  very  well  together;  you  will  have 
trouble  before  long.  If  I  chose  to  rely  upon 
that,  I  might  feel  quite  secure;  but  fortu- 
nately there  are  other  resources  left  me ; 
ami  so  I  will  recommend  you  to  be  a  little 
more  careful  alumt  your  proceedings  in  this 
house,  from  which,  I  assure  you,  you  will 
soon  be  ejected." 

After  saying  this  Edith  was  about  to  go, 
but  Leon  jumped  up  and  jiut  himself  before 
her. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Mrs.  Dinlleigli,"  said  he 
— "  wait  a  minut<!,  if  you  please.  If  you  can 
only  hold  that  devilish  tongue  of  yours  for 
one  moment,  so  as  to  give  me  tinu;  to  speak, 
I  shall  feel  obliged — yes,  infinitely  «)bliged." 

Edith  waited  in  some  curiosity,  and  Leon 
drew  forth  from  his  pocket  a  parcel  of  pa- 
pers. 

"Here,"  said  he,  flinging  them  on  the  ta- 
ble.    "  No  nonsense  now !  sign  these." 

He  spoke  in  a  <iuick,  sharp,  peremptory 
tone,  but  Edith  only  smiled. 

"And  pray  what  are  these T"  she  asked. 

"  Oh — some  i)ap»^rs." 

"  Is  it  possible !  Well,  I  can  see  that  nnich 
for  myself." 

"Oh,  well,  if  yoii'ro  so  infernally  i)artieu- 
lar,  they're  i)aj>ers  of  a — a  liUNine.ss  charac- 
ter— that  require  your  signature." 

"Do  tlu\v,  really!  And  who  sent  you  to 
me  with  theniT     Was  it  Wiggins!" 

"I  brought  them  myst^lf,"  said  Leon, 
haughtily.  "Wiggins  has  nothing  to  do 
with  them." 

"  So  you  did,  I  saw  you  bring  them  into 
the  room.     Hut  who  sent  you  f" 

"  1  tell  you  no  one  sent  me.  They  are  my 
own  concern." 

"And  jiray  why  should  I  take  any  inter- 
est in  these  more  than  in  the  papers  of  Wig- 
gins, or  tin*  jtorter,  or  Mack  Hugo  f" 

"I  U'.U  you,"  cried  Leon,  inqtatiently, 
"  I'm  your  husband ;  and  I  am  now  the — 
the  manager  of  this  t'state.  These  papers 
refer  to  estate  business." 

"  I  dare  say  they  Ixdong  to  your  busiin>ss, 
but  of  what  (Hincern  is  that  to  me  f  You  do 
not  appear  to  know  that  you  are  talking 
nonsens(!." 

"  Nonsense  T" 

"  Certainly.  I  have  no  husband.  I  am 
Miss  Daltoii." 

"  You  are  not  Miss  Dalton.  You  are  Mrs. 
Dudleigh." 

Edith  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  of  scorn. 

Leon  fixed  his  gray  eyes  upon  her  with  u 
fierce  glance,  and  said,  in  vehement  tunes, 


100 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


y 

t'A 
I 


Htr 


"SHB   CONFRONTED    UIM   WITH   A   COLD,   STONY   01,AltE," 


"  I  swear  by  all  that's  holy  that  you  are 
really  my  wife.  The  iiiarriajjo  was  a  valid 
one.  No  law  can  break  it.  The  banns  were 
published  in  the  village  church.  All  the  vil- 
lagers heard  them.  Wiggins  kept  himself 
shut  up  so  that  ho  knew  nothing  about  it. 
The  clergyman  is  the  vicar  of  Dalton — the 
Rev.  Mr.  Mann.  It  has  been  published  in 
the  papers.  In  the  eye  of  the  law  you  are 
no  longer  Miss  Dalton.  You  are  Mrs.  Leon 
Dndleigh.     You  are  my  wife!" 

At  these  words,  in  spite  of  Edith's  pride 
aiul  courage,  there  came  over  her  a  dark 
fear  that  all  this  might  indeed  be  as  he  said. 
The  mention  of  the  published  banns  dis- 
turbed her,  and  shook  that  proud  and  ob- 
stinate conviction  which  she  had  thus  far 
entertained  that  the  scene  in  the  chapel  was 
only  a  brutal  practical  joke.  It  might  be  far 
more.  It  might  not  be  a  mockery  after  all. 
It  might  be  good  in  the  eye  of  the  law — 
that  law  whose  injustice  had  been  shown  to 
her  in  the  terrible  experience  of  her  father ; 
»ud  if  this  were  so,  what  then  T 

A  pang  of  anguish  shot  through  her  heart 


as  this  terrific  thought  occurred,  lut  the 
pang  passed  away,  and  with  it  tb  terror 
passed  also.  Once  more  she  oalle<l  to  her 
aid  that  stubborn  Dalton  fortitude  and  Dal- 
ton pride  which  had  thus  far  so  well  sus- 
tained her. 

"  Your  wife !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  loath- 
ing ami  a  scorn  in  her  face  and  in  her  voice 
that  words  could  not  express,  at  the  sight  of 
which  even  Leon,  with  all  his  insolence,  was 
cowed — ''your  wife !  Do  you  think  you  can 
affect  me  by  lies  like  these  f" 

"Lies!"  repeated  Loon — "it's  the  truth. 
You  are  my  wife,  aud  you  must  sigu  these 
papers." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Edith,  resuming 
her  former  coolness. 

"  Do  you  dare  to  refuse  mo  this  T" 

"I  don't  see  any  daring  about  it.  Of 
course  I  refuse." 

"Sign  them!"  roared  Leon,  with  an  oath. 

Edith  smiled  lightly  and  turned  away. 

Leon  rushed  toward  her  with  a  menacing 
gesture.  But  Edith  was  aware  of  this.  In 
an  instant  she  turned,  snatched  a  dagger  from 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


101 


th- 

icc 

ol" 

as 

ail 

th. 


her  breast  which  had  been  concealed  there, 
and  confronted  him  with  a  cold,  Htony  glare. 

"  I  well  know,"  said  she,  "  what  an  utter 
coward  you  are.  While  I  havo  this  you 
will  not  dare  to  touch  mo.  It  in  bettor  for 
you,  on  the  whole,  just  now,  that  you  are  a 
coward,  for  this  dagger — which,  by-tho-way, 
I  always  carry — is  jioisoned.  It  is  an  old 
family  affair — and  tliat  shows  yoii  one  of 
the  advantages  of  having  a  family — and  s<» 
deadly  is  the  poison  that  a  scratch  would 
kill  you.  Yes,  there  is  some  advantage  in 
being  a  coward,  for  if  you  dared  to  toucii 
me  I  should  strike  you  with  this  as  I  would 
strike  a  mad  dog !" 

Leon  stood  before  her,  a  cowanl,  as  she 
knew  and  as  she  said,  not  daring  to  come 
within  reach  of  her  terrible  weapon,  which 
she  upheld  with  a  deadly  purpose  jdainly 
visible  in  her  eye.  Yet  it  seemed  as  though, 
with  his  great  muscular  power,  he  might 
easily  have  grasped  that  slender  ann  and 
wrenched  the  dagger  away.  Hut  this  was 
a  thing  which  he  did  not  dare  to  attempt ; 
the  risk  was  too  great.  He  might  have  re- 
ceived a  scratch  in  the  struggle  with  that 
young  girl  who  confronted  him  so  steadily, 
and  who,  with  all  her  fragile  beauty,  was  so 
calm,  so  proud,  and  so  resolute. 

Edith  waited  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
walked  quietly  away,  trusting  imidicitly  to 
Leon's  cowardice,  and  without  another  word, 
or  even  another  look,  she  loft  the  room  and 
returned  to  her  own  apartments. 


r' 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

A  FIGHT  IN  THE  ENEMY'S  CAMP. 

It  will  have  been  seen  already  that  Leon 
had  taken  up  his  abode  at  Dalton  Hall  im- 
mediately after  that  marriage  ceremony  as 
the  husband  of  Edith.  Her  illness  had 
hitherto  prevejited  him  from  having  any  un- 
derstanding with  her,  and  his  own  affairs 
called  him  away  before  her  recovery.  With 
Wiggins  he  remained  on  the  same  footing  as 
before ;  nor  did  he  find  himself  able  to  alter 
that  footing  in  the  slightest  degree.  What- 
ever Wiggins  may  have  thought  or  felt  on 
the  subject  of  the  marriage,  he  revealed  it 
to  no  one;  and  Leon  found  himself  com- 
pelled to  wait  for  Edith's  recovery  before  he 
could  accomplish  any  thing  definite  with  re- 
gard to  his  own  position.  On  his  return  to 
Dalton  Hall  he  learned  that  she  was  conva- 
lescent, and  he  was  much  surprised  at  her 
immediate  request  for  an  interview. 

With  the  result  of  that  interview  ho 
had  but  little  reason  to  be  satisfied.  He 
felt  disappointed,  enraged,  and  humiliated. 
Edith  had  been  perfectly  free  from  all  fear 
of  him.  The  young  girl  had  shown  herself 
a  virago.  His  insults  she  had  returned  with 
mocking  sarcasms,  his  threats  she  had  treat- 


ed with  utter  contempt,  and  finally  she  had 
proved  him  to  his  own  face  to  be  a  coward. 
Over  the  recollection  of  that  scene  he  could 
only  gnash  his  teeth  in  fruitless  rage.  The 
more  lie  thought  of  that  interview,  the  more 
bitter  grew  his  mortification ;  and  at  length 
he  resolved  to  force  matters  to  a  climax  at 
once  by  coming  to  a  distinct  and  final  un- 
derstanding with  Wiggins  himself. 

Leon  had  enjoyed  the  freetlomof  thehous<> 
long  enough  to  know  where  Wiggins's  room 
was,  and  into  that  room  he  intruded  himself 
abruptly  on  the  following  day.  It  was  in 
this  room  that  Wiggins  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  time,  carrying  on  a  vigorous 
though  not  .'cry  ext«'nsive  correspondence, 
and  moving  the  wires  of  those  plans  at 
which  he  liad  hinted  to  Edith.  He  was 
here  now,  and  as  Leon  entered  ho  looked  np 
with  a  silent  stare. 

"  I'll  not  stand  this  any  longer,"  burst 
forth  Leon,  abruptly  and  veliemently.  "  I'm 
in  terrible  difflculties.  I've  been  waiting 
long  enough.  You  must  side  with  me  act- 
ively, for  your  assistance  is  absolutely  nec- 
essary to  bring  that  mad  girl  to  terms.  I'm 
married  to  her.  She's  my  wife.  I  must 
have  contnd  of  this  )»lace  at  once;  and  I'll 
tolerate  no  further  opposition  from  her,  or 
humbug  from  you.  I've  come  now  to  tell 
you  this  finally  and  peremi>torily." 

"  She  is  not  your  wife,"  said  Wiggins, 
coldly. 

"  She  is." 

"It  was  a  trick.  The  coreniony  was  a 
miserable  sham." 

"  It  was  no  sham.  It  was  done  legally, 
and  ea  >  not  bo  undone." 

"Legally!  Pooh!  The  whole  thing  was 
a  farce.  It's  no  marriage.  Leg.illy  !  Why, 
what  has  that  miserable  afi'air  to  do  with 
the  law  f" 

"  What  has  it  to  do  T  It  has  every  thing 
to  do.  The  whole  thing  was  <Vuie  in  a  per- 
fectly legal  manner.  The  banns  were  reg- 
ularly published  by  the  vicar  of  Dalton  in 
Dalton  Church,  and  in  that  chaitel  Edith 
Dalton  was  regularly  and  legally  married 
to  Leon  Dudleigh  by  the  Hev.  Mr.  Munn. 
What  more  is  wanting  to  make  it  legal? 
Go  and  ask  Mr.  Munn  himself." 

"The  banns!"  exclaimed  Wiggins. 

"  Yes,  the  banns,"  saiil  Leon.  "  You  never 
heard  of  that,  i>erhaps.  If  you  doubt  me, 
go  and  ask  Munn." 

"  It  was  not  you  that  she  married !"  cried 
Wiggins,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he  set^med 
struck  rather  painfully  by  Leon's  last  infor- 
mation. "  It  was  not  you — it  was  that  other 
one.  He  called  himself  Dudleigh — a  miser- 
able assumed  name !" 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it,"  said  Leon, 
"  whether  it  was  assumed  or  not.  And  as  to 
the  marriage,  it  was  to  me.  I  held  her 
hand  ;  I  |)ut  the  ring  on  her  finger ;  she 
married  me,  and  no  other.     But  I'm  not  go- 


102 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


ing  to  talk  nlmnt  that.     I'vo  simply  come  | 
here  to  insist  on  your  active  help.     I  won't 
stand  any  nior«  of  this   humbug.     I've  al- 
ready told  you  that  I  know  you." 

Wiggins  n-maincd  silent  for  some  time. 

"  So  you  did,"  said  he  at  last,  iu  a  low 
voice  ;  "  but  what  of  that  f" 

"Why,  only  this:  you  h.id  to  let  mo  do 
what  I  chose.  And  I  intend  to  keep  a  good 
holil  of  you  yet,  my  fine  fellow." 

Wiggins  placed  both  his  (dbows  on  the 
table  in  front  of  him,  and  looked  fixedly  at 
Leon  for  some  time. 

"  You  did  say  once,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  that 
you  knew  me,  and  the  possibility  that  it 
might  '  true  induced  me  to  tolerate  you 
liere  ti  line  time.  I  trusted  to  Miss  Dal- 
toii's  iniiite  good  sense  to  save  her  from  any 
danger  from  one  like  you ;  but  it  appears 
that  I  was  mlKtaken.  At  the  ]>resi!nt  mo- 
ment, however,  I  may  iw  well  inform  you 
that  you  have  not  thi^  slightest  idea  who  I 
am,  and  more  than  this,  that  I  have  not  the 
slightest  ol»Jection  to  tell  you." 

"  I'ooh!"  said  Leon,  witli  ill-disguised  un- 
easiness, "  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to  take 
that  tone,  but  it  wou't  do  with  me.  I  know 
who  you  are." 

"  Who  am  I  f" 

"Oh,  Ikiu)W." 

"  Who  ?  who  T  Say  it !  If  you  did  know, 
you  would  not  imagine  that  you  had  any 
power  over  me.  Your  jiower  is  a  dream, 
and  vour  knowledge  of  mo  is  a  sham.  Who 
amir 

"Why,"  said  Leon,  with  still  greater  un- 
easiness aud  uncertainty  in  his  face  and 
voice,  "  you  are  not  John  Wiggins." 

"Who  do  you  think  I  am?"  ivnked  Wig- 
gins. 

"  Who  T  who  T  WHiy,  vou  camo  from  Aus- 
tralia." 

"  Well,  what  of  that  T" 

"  Well,  you  .'ire  sonui  convict  who  got  ac- 
quainted with  Dalton  out  there,  and  have 
come  l)ack  hero  to  try  to  get  control  of  these 
estates.'' 

"  Hut  how  could  I  do  that  T  If  this  were 
so,  do  you  sujipose  that  Wiggins  of  Liver- 
pool would  allow  it !" 

"  Oh,  he  has  a  share  in  the  busiiu'ss.  He 
goes  halves  with  you,  perhajis." 

"  If  he  wanted  any  share  at  all  in  such  a 
transaction,  he  might  have  all,  and  there- 
fore he  would  b(>  a  fool  to  take  half.  Your 
theory,  I  infer,  is  somewhat  lame.  And  what 
of  Mrs.  Dunbar  f  Is  she  an  Australian  con- 
vict too  T" 

"Mrs.  Dunbar? — who  is  she?  What! 
that  cra/y  housekeeiier?  Shi'  looks  as  though 
she  may  have  just  been  release<l  from  some 
lunatic  asylum." 

Wiggins  made  no  immediate  rejily,  and 
sat  for  a  few  moments  in  thought.  Tlieii  he 
looked  at  Leon  and  said  : 

"Well,  you  have  got  hold  of  part  .f  the 


truth — ^just  enough  to  mislead  yon.  It  is 
true  that  I  have  been  in  Australia,  though 
why  you  should  suppose  that  I  was  a  con- 
vict I  d<»  not  know.  More :  I  went  out 
ther^)  on  account  of  Dalton,  and  for  no  other 
reason.  While  there  I  saw  nnicli  of  him,  an<l 
gained  his  whole  confidence.  He  told  nie 
his  whole  story  unreservedly.  Ho  Ijelieved 
nui  to  be  his  friend.  He  confided  every  thing 
to  nu).  You  must  have  heard  of  his  trial, 
and  his  strange  persistence  in  refusing  to 
say  who  the  guilty  i)arty  was." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Leon,  wiirli  a  laugh.  "A 
good  idea  that,  when  the  guilty  party  was 
himself." 

"  It  was  not  himself,"  said  W^iggins,  "and 
before  long  the  worhl  shall  know  who  it  was, 
for  that  is  the  one  busiiu'ss  of  my  life  since 
my  return,  to  which  I  have  sacrilictul  all  oth- 
er concerns.  In  my  attention  to  this  I  have 
even  negleeted  Miss  Dalton" 

"She  does  not  appear  to  think  that  you 
have  neglecti'd  her,"  said  Leon,  with  a  sneer. 

To  this  Wiggins  jtaid  no  attention. 

"Dailon,"  said  he,  "told  uw  all  before  he 
died.  He  thought  of  his  daughter,  iind  t  hough 
he  had  suffered  himself,  yet  he  thought  (tn 
his  death-bed  that  it  would  l)e  a  sin  to  leave 
to  her  such  a  legacy  of  shami'.  It  was  this 
that  broke  his  obstinate  silence,  and  made 
him  tell  his  secret  to  me.  Ami  here,  Leon 
Dudleigh,  is  a  thing  in  which  you  aro  con- 
cerned." 

"  I !"  exclaimed  Leon,  in  astonishment,  not 
unmingled  with  alarm. 

"I  will  tell  you  i)resently.  I  will  simply 
remark  now  that  I  am  following  out  his 
wishes,  and  an>  working  for  Miss  Dalton,  as 
he  himself  would  have  worked,  to  redeem 
her  name." 

"The  name  is  hers  no  longer,"  said  Leon, 
"  She  seems  to  give  you  a  ])recions  hard  time 
of  it  too,  I  should  say,  and  does  not  altogeth- 
er appreciate  your  self-denying  and  woiuh-r- 
fuUy  disinterested  efforts." 

"I  h.'ive  nt)t  treated  her  Avith  snflicient 
consideration,"  said  Wiggins.  "I  misunder- 
stood her  character.  I  began  altogether 
wrong.  I  see  now  that  I  ou);ht  to  hav<' 
given  her  more  of  my  ('onliileiiee,  or,  better 
y<'t,  that  I  ought  not  to  ha\e  brought  her 
here  till  the  work  was  doni .  Well,"  he  add- 
ed, with  a  sigh,  "my  chief  consolation  is 
that  it  will  be  all  right  in  the  end." 

"This  is  all  rubbish,"  said  Leon.  "You 
are  not  what  you  jiretend  to  be.  You  are 
not  her  guardian.  You  are  an  inferlojter 
and  a  swiiidliT.  You  shall  remain  here  no 
longer.  I  am  her  husbitnd,  and  I  order  you 
off  the  ])reniises  at  once." 

"  You  are  not  her  husband,  ami  I  am  her 
guardian,"  saitl  Wiggins,  calmly.  "  I  was 
ap|iointed  by  her  fatht^r  on  his  death-bed." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  Hesides,  your  mime 
is  not  Wiggins  at  .'ill." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?   You  know  nothing." 


I 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


103 


UUTAUU:  UO  YOU  TALK  OK  VENUKANCKr' 


"I  know  Wijjgins." 

"  \Vi<;;;iiin  of  LivtTpool,  perlmps,  but  tlioro 
are  inori!  \Vi{^K'"'*cH  in  tlio  world  flian  that." 

"A  court  of  law  will  show  that — " 

"  You  will  not  go  to  a  court  of  law.  That 
is  nij'  tank.  And  mark  nie,"  continued  Wij^- 
;^ins,  with  thrilling  cniphasiH,  "  when  a  cr)urt 
of  law  takes  up  t\ui  Hubject  of  the  Dalt"" 
estates  or  the  Dalton  name,  then  it  will  bo 
the  turn  for  you  and  yours  to  tremble." 

"Tremble!"  exclaimed  Ler)n,  scornfully. 

"  Yes,"  rejieated  WiKK''"*-  "  Your  father — " 

"  I'ooh !"  said  Loon. 

"  When  Dalton  died,"  continued  Wifj^ins, 
"ho  left  his  palters.  Anion};  them  was  a  let- 
ter of  whieli  he  liimself  tohl  me.  If  he  had 
produced  that  li'ttiT  on  his  trial,  ho  would 
liave  escaped,  and  the  nuilty  man  would 
have  been  punished.  Tiie  letter  was  written 
by  tlm  real  forifer.  It  inclosed  the  f(Uj;ed 
check  to  Dalton,  asking  him  to  dr.-iw  the 
money  and  jiay  certain  pressing  (.ebts.  The 
writer  of  that  letter  was  your  ov  n  father — 
Lionel  Dmlleigh !" 

"  It's  a  lie  !"  cried  Leon,  starting  up,  with 
terrible  ex(Utemeut  in  his  face — an  excite- 
ment, too,  which  was  mingled  with  unspeak- 
able dread. 

"It's  true,"  saiil  Wiggins,  calmly,  "and 
tbo  hotter  can  be  ]»roved." 

"It  can  not." 

"It  can,  and  by  the  best  of  testimony." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Perhajis  not;    but   thi-ro   is  something 


more.  With  the  murder  trial  you  are  no 
doubt  familiar.  In  fact,  I  take  it  for  granted 
that  you  are  familiar  with  Dalton's  case  in 
all  i/«  bearhH/n,"  added  Wiggins,  in  a  t<uie  of 
deej>  meaning.  "  In  that  murder  trial,  then, 
you  are  aware  that  a  Maltese  cro.ss  was  found 
on  the  scene  of  nnirder,  and  created  much  ex- 
citement. Y<m  know  what  part  it  had  in 
the  trial.  I  now  inform  you  that  I  have 
proof  which  can  show  Ix-yond  a  doubt  that 
this  Maltese  cross  was  the  property  of  your 
father— Lionel  Dudleigh." 

"  It's  a  lie — an  infernal  lie!"  said  Leon,  in 
a  hojirse  voice.  His  excitement  had  now 
become  ti'rrible. 

"  It's  true — all  true,"  continued  Wiggins, 
"It  <'an  all  be  jM'oved  by  a  witness  that  can 
not  be  impeachrd.  Yes,  Leon  Dnilleigh,  you 
yourself  WduM  be  forced  to  accept  the  testi- 
mony of  that  witness." 

"What  witness  F"  siiid  Leon,  in  a  voice 
that  was  scarcely  audible  from  conllicting 
emotions. 

Wiggins  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  then 
said,  in  a  low,  deep,  solemn  voi<'e, 

"  Leon  Dudleigh,  that  witness  is  i/o«r 
molhrr .'" 

The  other  started  as  though  ho  had  been 
shot. 

"My  mother!"  ho  almost  screamed  -" my 
mother!  why,  she — she  is  dead — dead  lo!ig 
ago." 

"  When  did  you  find  that  out  t"  said  Wig- 
gins, 


104 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"She's  dead!  sLo's  dead!"  repeated  Leon, 
as  though  by  aasertiou  ho  could  make  it 
true. 

"She  is  not  dead,"  said  Wiggins,  in  an 
awful  voice,  "  though  all  these  years  she  has 
lived  a  living  death.  She  is  not  dead.  She 
is  alive,  and  she  now  stands  ready,  when  the 
hour  comes,  though  with  an  agonized  heart, 
to  give  that  testimony  which,  years  ago,  she 
dared  not  and  could  not  give.  She  has  al- 
lowed the  innocent  to  suffer,  and  the  guilty 
to  go  free,  but  now  she  will  do  so  no  longer. 
Tile  work  upon  which  I  have  been  engaged 
is  almost  complete.  The  preparations  are 
made,  and  this  very  day  I  am  going  to  Liv- 
erpool to  perform  the  last  aj ts  that  are  nec- 
essary toward  vindicating  the  memory  of 
Dalton,  establishing  his  innocence,  and  pun- 
ishing the  guilty.  As  for  you,  you  can  do 
nothing  here,  and  I  have  resolved  to  punish 
you  for  what  you  have  done.  I  shall  show 
j'ou  no  mercy.  If  you  want  to  save  yourself, 
leave  the  country,  for  otherwise  I  swear  you 
will  never  be  safe  from  my  vengeance." 

"  Vengeance !"  said  Leon,  in  low,  menacing 
tones.  "  Dotard !  do  you  talk  of  vengeance  t 
You  do  not  understand  the  meaning  of  that 
word.     Wait  till  you  see  what  I  can  do." 

And  with  these  words  he  left  the  room. 

That  evening  Wiggins  left  for  Liverpool. 


CHAPTER  XXXin. 

THE  HUSUAND'S  last  APPEAL. 

Early  on  the  following  day  Edith  re- 
ceived a  request  from  Leon  for  another  in- 
terview. This  request  was  acceptable  in 
every  way,  for  the  last  intorvio"'  bail  been 
no  more  satisfactory  to  her  than  to  him,  and 
she  could  not  help  hoping  that  scnnething 
more  definite  might  result  from  a  now  one. 
She  therefore  went  down,  and  found  him  al- 
ready in  the  room. 

On  this  occasion  Leon  showed  nothing  of 
that  languor  which  he  bad  previously  affect- 
ed. He  appeared,  on  the  contrary,  uneasy, 
nervous,  and  imi)ivtient.  So  abstracted  was 
he  by  his  own  thouglits  that  he  did  not  no- 
tice her  entrance.  She  sat  down  and  wai  - 
ed  for  a  little  while,  after  which  she  said, 
quietly, 

"  Did  you  wish  to  see  mo,  Captain — a — 
Dudleight" 

Leon  started,  then  frowned ;  then,  after  a 
little  silence,  he  began  abruptly : 

"  You  may  deny  it  as  much  as  you  choose, 
but  it's  no  use.  You  are  actually  married  to 
me.  You  are  really  and  truly  my  wife,  both 
in  the  eyes  of  man  and  in  the  eyes  of  the 
law.  From  that  ni.arringe  nothing  can  ever 
deliver  yim  but  a  divorce." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  said  Edith,  quiet\v. 
"Even  if  that  miserable  performance  should 
turn  out  to  be  a  marriage — which  is  absurd 


— still  there  is  one  other  thing  that  can  free 
mo." 

"  Ah  f — and  what  may  that  be  T" 

"  Death !"  sai(.  i^litb,  solemnly. 

Lbon  turned  pale.  "Is  that  a  threat T" 
he  asked  at  length,  in  a  trembling  voice. 
"  Whose  death  do  you  mean  T" 

Edith  made  no  reply. 

"  Yes,"  said  Leon,  after  a  pause,  going  on 
with  his  former  train  of  thought,  "  at  any 
rate  you  are  my  wife,  and  you  can  not  help 
it.  if  on  may  deny  it  as  much  as  you  please, 
but  that  will  not  avail.  In  spite  of  this, 
however,  I  do  not  molest  you,  although  I 
might  so  easily  do  it.  I  never  trouble  you 
with  my  presence.  I  am  very  forbeaiing. 
Few  would  do  as  I  do.  Yet  I  have  rights, 
and  some  of  them,  at  least,  I  am  determined 
to  assert.  Now,  on  the  whole,  it  is  well  for 
you — and  you  ought  to  see  it — that  you  have 
one  here  who  occupies  the  peculiar  position 
toward  you  which  I  do.  If  it  were  not  for 
me  you  would  be  altogether  in  the  power  of 
Wiggins.  He  is  your  guardian  or  your  jail- 
er, whichever  you  choose  to  call  him.  He 
could  shut  you  up  in  the  vaults  of  Dalton 
Hall  if  he  chose — and  he  probably  will  do 
that  very  thing  before  long — for  who  is  there 
to  prevent  him  f  I  am  tue  only  one  who  can 
stand  between  you  and  him.  I  am  your  only 
hope.  You  do  not  know  who  and  what  this 
man  is.  Ycm  think  you  know  him,  but  you 
don't.  You  think  of  him  as  a  villain  and  a 
tyrant.  Let  mo  tell  you  that  in  your  bitter- 
est hate  of  that  man  you  have  never  begun 
to  conceive  the  fraction  of  his  villainy.  Let 
me  tell  you  that  he  is  one  who  passes  your 
comprehension.  Let  me  tell  you  that,  how- 
ever much  you  may  hate  me,  if  I  were  to  tell 
you  what  Wiggins  is,  tho.  feelings  tliat  you 
have  toward  me  would  be  almost  affection. 
compar»i(l  to  those  wliich  you  would  have 
toward  him." 

I^eon  jiaused.  Ho  had  spoken  most  ear- 
nestly and  vehemently ;  but  upon  Edith  these 
words  produced  no  effect.  She  believed  that 
this  was  a  last  effort  to  work  upon  her  feel- 
ings by  exciting  her  fears  of  Wiggir.3.  She 
did  not  believe  him  capable  of  s])eaking  the 
truth  to  her,  and  thus  his  words  produced 
no  result. 

"  If  you  had  not  been  married  to  mo  when 
you  Avere," continued  Leon,  "I  solemnly  as- 
sure you  that  by  this  tinui  you  would  have 
been  where  hoj)e  could  never  reach  you." 

"Well,  really,"  said  Edith,  "Captain— a 
— Dudleigli,  all  this  is  excessively  childish. 
Hy  such  ail  absurd  preamble  as  this  you. 
of  course,  must  mean  sometliing.  All  this, 
however,  can  have  no  possible  effect  on  me, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  I  consider  it 
sjiek'n  fur  effect.  I  hojie,  therefore,  that 
you  will  be  kind  enoiigli  to  come  at  onct!  to 
business,  and  say  precisely  what  it  is  that 
you  want  of  iiie." 

"  It  is  no  absurd  preamble,"  said  Leon, 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


105 


giooDiily.  "It  is  not  noiispiise,  as  I  cotild 
soon  show  you.  There  is  no  human  being 
who  has  done  so  miich  wrong  to  you  and 
yours  as  this  Wiggins,  yet  you  quietly  allow 
him  to  be  your  guardian." 

"IT"  said  i:dith.  "I  allow  himt  Let 
me  be  free,  and  then  you  will  see  how  long 
I  allow  him." 

"  But  I  mean  here — in  Dalton  H.all." 

"I  do  not  allow  him  any  thing.  I  am 
simply  a  prisoner.  He  is  uiy  jailer,  and 
keeps  me  here." 

"  You  need  not  be  so." 

"Pray  how  can  I  escape?" 

"  Hy  siding  with  me." 

"With  youf"  asked  Edith— "and  what 
then  T" 

"  Well,  if  yon  side  with  mo  I  will  drive 
him  out." 

"  You  seem  incapable  of  understanding," 
said  Edith,  "that  of  tlie  two,  you  yourself, 
both  by  nature  and  by  position,  are  by 
far  the  more  abhorrent  to  me.  Side  with 
you  !  And  is  this  the  proposal  you  have  to 
make  t" 

"  I  tell  you  that  you  are  in  no  danger  from 
me,  and  that  you  are  from  him." 

"Keally,  as  far  as  danger  is  concerned, 
my  prospects  with  Wiggins  are  far  prefer- 
able to  my  prospects  with  you." 

"  But  you  don't  know  him.  Ho  has  done 
terrible  things — deeds  of  horror." 

"  And  you — what  have  you  done  T  But 
lierhaps  I  have  mistaken  you.  When  you 
iusk  me  to  side  with  you,  you  may  perhaps 
mean  that  I  shall  bo  at  liberty,  and  that 
when  you  expel  Wiggins  you  will  allow  me 
to  go  also." 

At  this  Leon  looked  down  in  evident  em- 
baiTassment. 

"  Well — not — yet,"  ho  said,  slowly.  "  In 
time,  of  course  ;  but  it  can  not  all  be  done 
just  at  once,  you  know." 

"  Whiit  can  not  be  done  at  once  t" 

"  Your — your  freedom." 

"  Why  not  t" 

"Well,  there  are — a — certain  difflcuUies 
in  the  way." 

"Then  what  can  I  gain  by  siding  with 
you  1  Why  should  I  east  oil'  Wiggins,  and 
take  a  new  jailer  who  has  done  to  nic  a 
wrong  far  nu>ro  foul  and  far  more  intoler- 
able than  any  that  Wiggins  ever  atteniiit- 
ed  T" 

"  But  you  mistake  me.  I  intend  to  let  you 
go  free,  of  course — that  is,  in  time." 

"In  time!" 

"  Yes ;  every  thing  can  not  be  done  in  a 
monuMit." 

"This  is  mere  childishness.  You  are  tri- 
lling. I  am  astoninhed  that  you  should 
speak  in  this  way,  after  what  you  know  of 
uie." 

"But  I  tell  ynw  I  will  set  you  free — only 
I  can  not  do  that  until  I  get  what  I  waut." 

"And  what  is  it  that  you  want  T" 


"  Why,  what  I  married  you  for." 

"  What  is  that  f" 

"  Money,"  said  Leon,  abruptly. 

"Money?"  repeated  Edith,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  money,"  said  Leon,  harshly. 

"  You  nnist  really  apply  to  Wiggins,  then," 
said  she,  carelessly. 

"No;  you  yourself  are  f'e  only  one  to 
whom  I  nnist  apply." 

"  To  mo  T  I  have  no  money  whatever.  It 
is  of  no  use  for  me  to  infor.n  you  that  Wig- 
gins is  all-powerful  here.  I  thought  by 
your  professed  knowledge  (if  his  wonderful 
secrets  that  you  had  some  {i;reat  power  over 
him,  and  could  get  from  him  whatever  you 
want." 

"  Never  mind  what  you  thought,"  growled 
Leon.  "  I  come  to  you,  and  you  only,  aud  I 
ask  you  for  money." 

"How  can  /give  it?" 

"  By  signing  your  name  to  a  paper,  a  sim- 
ple paper,  which  I  can  use.  Your  signature 
is  necessary  to  elYect  what  I  wish." 

"  My  signature  f  Ah !  And  what  possible 
inducement  can  j'ou  otter  me  for  my  signa- 
ture f  " 

"  Whv,  what  von  most  desire." 

"WhlitF     Mv  freedom!" 

"  Yes." 

"Very  well.  Will  you  drive  rae  to  the 
village  at  once!" 

Leon  hesitated. 

"  Well,  not  just  at  once,  you  know.  You 
must  remain  here  a  short  time,  and  go 
through  certain  formalities  aiul  routine 
work,  and  attest  certain  things  before  a 
lawyer." 

Edith  smiled. 

"What  a  simpleton  you  must  still  think 
me!  How  easy  you  nuist  think  it  is  to  im- 
l)ose  upon  me!  Perlia[ts  you  think  nie  8(» 
credulous,  or  so  much  in  the  habit  of  con- 
tiiling  in  you,  that  no  such  thing  as  doubt 
ever  enters  my  mind." 

Leon  glared  angrily  at  her. 

"I  tell  you  I  must  have  it,"  ho  cried,  in 
excited  tones,  "I  must  have  it — by  fair 
means  or  foul." 

'•  Ibit  of  the  two  ways  I  prei^ume  you  have 
a  iireference  fur  the  latter,"  said  Kdith. 

"I  tell  you  I  must  and  will  have  it,"  re- 
iterated Leon. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  get  my  signature 
very  well — unless  you  forge  it  ;  but  then  I 
sup]iose  that  will  not  stand  in  your  way." 

"Now  by  all  that  is  most  holy,"  cried 
Leon,  vehemently,  "you  make  me  hate  you 
even  worse  than  I  hate  Wiggins." 

"  Keally,  tliese  feelings  of  yours  are  a  s-;b- 
ject  in  whieh  I  do  not  take  the  smallest  iii 
tercNt." 

"I  tell  you,"  cried  Leon,  struggling  to 
repress  his  rage,  "if  you  sign  this  paper 
you  shall  be  free." 

"Let  me  be  free  first,  and  then  I  will 
think  about  it." 


106 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"  If  yon  get  free  yon'll  refuse  to  sign," 
said  Leon. 

"  But  if  I  were  to  sign  first  I  should  nev- 
er be  free." 

"  You  shall  be  free.  I  promise  you  on  the 
honor  of  a  gentleman,"  cried  Leon,  earnestly. 

"  Vm  afraid,"  said  Edith,  in  a  tone  of 
quiet  contempt,  "  that  the  security  is  of  too 
little  value." 

Leon  looked  at  her  with  fury  in  his  eyes. 

"  You  are  driving  me  to  the  most  desper- 
ate measures,"  ho  crU'd. 

"  It  seems  to  mo  that  your  measures  have 
all  along  been  as  desperate  a«  they  well  can 
be." 

"  I  swear  by  all  that's  holy,"  tlnindered 
Leon,  "that  I'll  tamo  you  yet.  I'll  bring 
you  into  subjection." 

"  Ah !  then  in  that  case,"  said  Edith,  "  ray 
comfort  will  be  that  the  subjection  can  not 
last  long." 

"Will  it  not!"  asked  Leon. 

"  No,  it  will  not,  a,s  you  very  well  know," 
said  Edith,  in  cold,  measured  tones,  looking 
steadfastly  at  him  with  what  seemed  like  a 
certain  s<demn  warniiig.  Slie  rose  aa  she 
said  this,  still  looking  at  Leon,  wliilo  he  also 
rose  in  a  state  of  vehement  excitement. 

"  What  do  you  mean  T"  he  cried.  "  You 
look  as  blood-thirsty  as  an  assassin." 

"  I  may  yet  become  one,"  said  Edith,  gloom- 
ily, "if  this  lasts  much  longer.  You  have 
eyes,  but  you  will  not  see.  You  treat  me 
like  some  silly,  timid  child,  while  I  havfs  all 
the  time  the  spirit  of  a  man.  This  can  only 
end  in  one  way.     Simie  one  niu.st  die!" 

Leon  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  Her 
voice  and  her  look  showed  that  she  was  in 
earnest,  but  the  fragile  beauty  of  her  shMi- 
der  form  seemed  to  belie  the  dark  meaning 
of  her  words. 

"  I  came  with  a  fair  offer,"  said  he,  in  a 
voice  hoarse  witli  ])assion. 

"You!"  said  Edith,  in  ccdd  scorn;  " i/ou 
with  a  fair  ofl'er!  Fairness  and  honor  and 
jtistice  and  truth,  anil  all  sucdi  things,  are 
altogether  unknown  to  such  as  you." 

At  tills  Leon  frowned  that  i)eculiar  frown 
of  his,  ami  gnawed  his  mustache  in  his  rage. 

"  1  liave  spared  you  thus  far,"  said  he — 
"I  have  spared  you;  but  now,  by  Heaven, 
you  shall  feed  what  it  is  to  have  a  master!" 

"  You !"  she  cri<>d — ■"  you  spared  me  f  If 
I  have  escaped  any  injury  from  vou,  it  has 
been  tlirougli  my  own  courage  and  tlie  cow- 
ardice of  your  own  heart.  You  my  niast<T! 
You  will  learn  a  terrible  lesson  before  you 
become  tliat !" 

"  I  have  spared  you,"  cried  Leon,  now  be- 
side himself  with  rage—"  I  have  sjiiired  you, 
l)nt  I  will  spare  you  no  longer.  After  this 
you  sliiill  know  that  whiit  I  have  thus  far 
done  is  as  nothing  to  tliat  whidi  is  yet  be- 
fori>  you." 

"  Whnt  you  have  done!"  said  Edith,  fix- 
ing her  great  wratliful  eyes  more  sternly 


upon  Leon,  with  a  look  of  deadly  menace, 
and  with  burning  intensity  of  gaze,  and 
speaking  in  a  low  tone  that  was  triMuulous 
with  repressed  indignation — "what  yon 
have  done !  Let  me  tell  you.  Captain  Dud- 
leigb,  your  heart's  blood  could  never  atone 
for  the  wrongs  you  have  done  me !  Beware, 
Sir,  how  you  drive  me  to  desperation.  You 
little  know  what  I  have  in  iny  mind  to  do. 
You  have  made  me  too  fffuiiliar  with  the 
thought  of  death!" 

At  these  words  Leon  stared  at  her  in  si- 
lence. He  seemed  at  last  to  understand  the 
full  possibility  of  Edith's  nature,  and  to  com- 
prehend that  this  one  whom  he  threatened 
was  capable,  in  her  despair,  of  making  all 
Ins  threats  recoil  on  his  own  head.  He  said 
nothing,  and  in  a  few  moments  afterward  she 
left  the  room. 

As  she  went  out  of  the  door  she  encoun- 
tered Hugo.  He  started  as  she  came  noise- 
lessly upoji  him.  He  luul  evidently  been 
listening  to  all  that  had  been  said.  At  this 
specimen  of  the  way  in  which  she  was 
watched,  though  it  really  showed  her  no 
more  than  what  she  had  all  along  known, 
there  arose  in  Edith's  mind  a  fresh  sense  of 
helplessness  and  of  peril. 


Ev 
ass 
no 
bat 
hill 
1 


EDITH   8KT   TO   WOUK. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

TIIK  FUGITIVE  AND  TIIK  PURSUER. 

Ox  returning  to  her  own  room  from 
that  interview  with  Leon,  Edith  sat  for  a 
long  time  involved  in  thought.  It  was  evi- 
dent to  her  now  that  her  situation  was  one 
full  of  frightful  peril.  The  departure  of 
Wiggins,  of  whicli  she  was  aware,  seemed 
to  afford  additional  danger.  Between  him 
and  Leon  there  had  been  what  seemed  to 
her  at  least  the  affectation  of  dislike  or  dis- 
agreement, liut  now  tliat  he  was  gone  there 
remained  no  one  who  would  even  i)retend  to 
interpose  between  herself  and  her  enemy. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


107 


lie 

111' 

■il 

ill 

lo 

wo 


Even  if  Mrs.  Dunbar  liad  been  capable  of 
aHHiHtin^  her  agiiiuHt  Leon,  Edith  Icnew  that 
no  reliance  could  be  placed  upon  her,  for  she 
had  openly  manifested  a  strong  regard  for 
him. 

This  departure  of  Wiggins,  •which  thus 
seemed  to  m.ike  her  present  position  more 
perilous,  seemed  also  to  Edith  to  afi'ord  her 
a  better  opj)ortunity  than  any  she  had 
known  since  her  arrival  of  putting  into  ex- 
ecution her  long-meditated  project  of  tlight. 
True,  there  was  still  the  same  difficulty 
which  had  been  suggested  once  before — the 
want  of  money — but  Edith  was  now  indif- 
ferent to  this.  The  one  thing  necessary  was 
to  escape  from  her  new  i)eril8.  If  she  could 
but  get  out  of  the  Dal  ton  grounds,  slie 
hoped  to  hud  some  lawyer  who  might  take 
up  her  cause,  and  allow  her  enough  to  sup- 
ply her  modest  wants  until  that  cause  should 
be  decided.  IJut  liberty  was  the  one  thought 
that  ecliimed  all  others  in  her  estimation ; 
and  if  she  could  but  once  effect  her  escape 
from  this  horrible  place,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  all  other  things  would  be  easy. 

The  i)re8ent  appeared  to  be  beycmd  all 
others  the  fitting  time,  for  Wiggins  was 
away,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  his  ab- 
sence the  watch  over  her  would  jjrobably  be 
relaxed.  Her  long  illness  would  of  itself 
have  thrown  them  to  some  extent  off  their 
guard,  and  render  her  purpose  unsuspected. 
By  this  time  it  would  doubtless  be  forgotten 
that  she  had  once  left  the  Hall  liy  night,  and 
it  was  not  likely  that  any  precaution  would 
be  taken  against  a  second  flight  on  the  part 
of  one  so  weak  as  she  was  supposed  to  be. 
A  few  days  before  she  had  made  a  stealthy 
visit  to  that  door,  and  had  found,  to  her 
great  relief,  that  no  additional  fastenings 
had  been  put  there.  Her  illness  had  evi- 
dently rendered  any  such  precaution  unnec- 
essiiry  for  the  time;  and  since  her  recovery 
Wiggins  had  no  doubt  been  too  nnicli  occu- 
pied with  other  things  to  think  of  this. 

Now  was  the  time,  then,  for  flight.  The 
danger  was  greater  than  ever  before,  and 
the  opportunity  for  escape  better.  Leon 
was  master  in  the  house.  The  other  in- 
mates were  simply  his  creatines.  Leon 
Diidleigh,  as  ho  called  himself",  claimeil  to 
be  her  husband.  Ho  assented  that  claim  iii- 
"'■Kiiiiy  and  vehemently.  She  had  <lefit'<l 
Mm,  but  how  long  would  she  be  able  to 
maintain  that  defiant  attitude?  How  long 
(Miild  her  frail  strength  sustain  her  in  a  life 
'tf  incessant  warfare  like  this,  even  if  her 
sjiirit  should  continue  to  be  as  indomitable 
as  ever  T  The  scene  of  this  day,  and  her  last 
parting  with  him,  made  the  danger  seem  so 
ininrmeiit  tliat  it  nerved  her  resolution,  and 
made  her  determine  at  all  hazards  to  attempt 
her  escape  that  night. 

lint  how  should  she  esca]>e  t 

Not  for  the  first  time  did  this  question  oc- 
cur.   For  a  huig  time  she  had  been  brooding 


over  it,  and  as  she  had  thonght  it  over  she 
had  devised  a  plan  which  seemed  to  hold 
out  to  her  some  j)rospect  of  success. 

In  the  first  place,  it  was  evident  that  she 
would  have  to  climb  over  the  wall.  To  ob- 
tain any  key  by  which  she  could  ojten  the 
gates  was  impossible.  She  could  find  none 
that  were  at  all  likely  to  do  so ;  besides,  she 
was  afraid  that  even  if  she  had  a  key,  the 
attempt  to  tinloek  the  gates  might  expose 
her  to  dete(!tion  and  arn'st  by  the  watchful 
jiorter.  The  wall,  therefore,  was  her  only 
hope. 

is'ow  that  wall  could  not  bo  climbed  by 
her  unassisted  strength,  l)ut  she  knew  that 
if  she  had  any  sort  of  a  ladd<'r  it  might  eas- 
ily be  done.  The  question  that  arose,  then, 
was  how  to  procure  this  ladder.  A  wooden 
one  could  not  be  of  any  service,  for  she  could 
not  carry  it  so  far,  and  she  saw  plainly  that 
her  attempt  must  be  made  by  means  of  some 
sort  of  a  rope-ladder. 

Having  reached  this  conclusion,  she  began 
a  diligent  search  among  all  the  articles  at 
her  disposal,  and  finally  concluded  that  the 
bod-cord  would  be  exactly  what  she  needed. 
In  addition  to  this,  h<i\vever,  something  niori? 
was  required — s;)mething  of  the  nature  of  a 
gra])]tle  or  hook  to  secure  her  rope-ladder  to 
the  top  of  the  wall.  This  reciuired  <a  fur- 
ther search,  but  in  this  also  she  was  suc- 
cessful. An  iron  rod  on  the  eiu'taiii  pole 
along  which  the  curtains  ran  ai>peare(l  to 
her  to  be  well  suited  to  her  neeils.  It  was 
about  six  feet  long  and  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
thick.  Tlu!  rod  rested  loosely  on  tlie  pole, 
and  Edith  was  able  to  remove  it  without 
difficulty. 

All  these  preliminaries  had  been  arranged 
or  decided  ujion  before  this  evening,  and 
Edith  had  now  only  to  take  ])OHst'Hsion  of 
the  rod  and  the  rope,  and  adajtt  them  to  her 
wants.  For  this  piirjiose  she  waited  till 
dark,  and  then  hegaii  lier  work. 

It  was  nioonllglit,  and  she  was  able  to 
work  without  lighting  a  liim]),  thus  secur- 
iiig  additional  secriicy.  This  moonlight  was 
both  an  advantage  and  a  disadvantage,  and 
she  did  not  know  whetlitT  to  be  glad  or 
sorry  altont  it.  It  eeitaiiily  facilitated  her 
eseajio  by  showing  the  way,  but  llieii.  on 
the  othi>r  hand,  it  rendered  <liscovery  e;i.sler. 

Edith  set  to  work,  and,  first  of  all,  she 
removed  tlie  Ited-eord.  It  was  as  strong  as 
was  desirable,  and  far  longer  than  was  nec- 
essary. She  doiihltMl  jiart  of  tills,  and  tied 
knots  at  intervals  of  about  .1  foot,  and  in 
this  simple  way  formed  what  was  a  very 
good  step-ladder  about  three  yards  long, 
which  was  siifllcient  for  her  purpose.  Tlie-n 
she  removed  the  Iron  curtain  rod,  and  bent 
this  in  such  a  way  that  it  fornu'd  a  hook  or 
grajtple  strong  enough  for  her  wanls.  She 
lliiis  had  a  nqie-laddrT,  with  a  graiiplliig- 
iron  attached,  of  rude  eonstruetlon,  it  is 
true,  yet  perfectly  well  suited  to  the  tusk 


108 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


bpfore  her,  and  so  light  as  to  bo  quite  port- 
able. 

These  preparations  did  not  take  up  much 
time.  After  taking  what  she  wanted  of  the 
bed-cord,  there  wan  enougii  left  to  replace  in 
the  bedstead  so  afj  to  hold  up  the  bed.  She 
did  not  know  what  might  happen,  and  wish- 
ed to  preserve  nppearanccn  in  th«  event  of 
Mrs.  Dunbar's  entrance,  or  in  coho  of  her 
being  compelled  to  postpo^ie  her  piv.jeet. 
From  the  same  motive  she  also  replaced  the 
curtain  so  as  to  look  as  it  did  before,  secur- 
ing it  in  its  place  by  means  of  pins. 

At  length  all  these  preparations  were 
completed,  and  it  only  remained  for  Edith 
to  wait  for  the  proper  time  to  start. 

The  hours  passed  on. 

Midnight  came,  but  even  at  that  hour 
Edith  thought  that  it  was  too  early.  Leon 
probably  kept  late  himrs,  and  might  be 
wandering  about.  She  determined  to  wait 
longer. 

The  moon  waa  still  shii  ing.  There  were 
imly  a  few  scattered  clouds  in  that  clear 
sky. 

Could  she  find  her  way  to  the  wall  T  She 
felt  confident  of  that.  She  intended  to  go 
down  the  avenue,  keeping  close  to  the  trees, 
so  as  to  fly  to  their  shelter  in  case  of  pursuit. 
When  she  reached  the  neighViorhood  of  the 
porter's  lodge,  she  would  go  through  the 
trees  to  the  wall,  trusting  to  fortune  to  find 
her  way  for  that  short  distance. 

Such  were  the  hopes  and  plans,  made  long 
before,  which  now  occupied  her  thoughts  as 
she  waited. 

At  Ia«t  two  o'clock  came.  It  seemed  now 
that  it  would  be  unwise  to  wait  any  longer, 
since  the  time  that  was  left  between  this 
and  daylight  was  barely  sufHcient  to  allow 
for  contingencies.  Without  any  further  de- 
lay, therefore,  she  prepared  to  depart. 

It  was  with  a  painful  feeling  of  suspense 
and  agitation  tliat  she  set  forth  upon  this 
attempt  at  flight,  which  she  knew  nuist  be 
a  final  one.  Over  her  left  arm  she  threw 
the  rope-ladder,  while  in  her  left  hand  she 
held  that  ancestral  dagger  which  had  al- 
ready done  her  such  good  service  in  her 
dealings  with  Leon.  Her  right  hand  was 
thus  free  to  grope  in  the  dark  for  her  way, 
to  open  ludts,  or  to  seize  the  dagger  from 
her  other  hand  whenever  the  need  for  it 
might  arise.  For  this  last  dread  necessity 
she  had  thoroughly  prepared  herself.  By 
the  desperaticm  of  her  position,  and  by  the 
dark  menaces  of  Leon,  she  had  been  nerved 
to  a  courage  beyond  even  that  elevated 
standard  which  her  high  spirit  ordinarily 
reached,  and  she  had  resolved  that  if  any 
one  interposed  between  herself  and  that 
liberty  for  which  she  longed,  to  use  that 
dagger,  and  to  strike  without  scrui>Io. 

On  leaving  her  room  she  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  outer  hall  and  listened.  All 
was  still.     She  glided  noiselessly  along,  and 


reached  the  stairway.  Once  more  she  stood 
aiid  listened  before  descending.  There  was 
silence  yet.  She  now  descended  the  stairs 
as  noiselessly  as  before,  and  reached  the 
lowci  hall,  where  she  walked  quickly  to- 
ward the  east  end,  and  came  to  the  narrow 
stairway  that  led  down  to  the  door.  Here 
once  more  she  paused.  A  fearful  thought 
came  to  her  as  she  looked  down.  What  if 
some  one  should  be  waiting  there  in  the 
dark!  What  i'"  Leon  should  be  there!  In 
spite  of  herself  a  shudder  passed  through 
her  -".t  that  thought. 

Su<ldenly,  as  she  stood  there,  she  heard  a 
sound — a  sound  which  roused  her  once  more 
to  action,  and  iiispired  now  fears.  It  was 
the  sound  of  a  footfall— far  away,  inde(Ml,  in- 
side die  house,  but  still  a  footfall — a  heavy 
tread,  as  of  some  one  in  pursuit,  and  its  sound 
was  loud  and  menacing  to  her  excited  senses. 
There  was  only  one  to  whom  she  could  at- 
tribute it — Leon  ! 

He  had  heard  her,  then ! 

She  was  i»ursued ! 

Like  lightning  this  thought  came  to  her, 
and  brought  terror  with  it.  She  could  de- 
lay no  longer.  Down  the  narrow  stairway 
she  hurried  through  the  darkness,  and  reach- 
ed the  door.  In  her  panic  she  forgot  her 
usual  caution.  With  a  jerk  she  drew  the 
bolt  back,  and  a  harsh  grating  sound  arose. 
She  flung  opt>n  the  door,  which  also  creaked 
on  its  nnnsed  hinges.  Then  leaping  out, 
she  hastily  banged  the  door  after  her,  and 
ran  straight  on. 

In  front  of  Dalton  Hall  there  was  a  wide 
lawn  and  a  pond.  Heyond  this  arose  the 
trees  of  the  park.  Toward  the  shelter  of 
those  shadowy  trees  Edith  hurried,  with 
the  dread  sense  in  her  soul  th.at  shci  was  be- 
ing pursued  by  a  remorseless  enemy.  This 
thought  lent  additional  speed  to  her  foot- 
stejts  as  she  flew  over  the  intervening  space. 
The  moon  was  shiniu;.  brightly,  and  she 
knew  that  she  could  easily  be  seen  by  any 
watcher;  but  she  sought  only  the  more  to 
reach  the  trees,  and  thus  escape  observa- 
tion. The  time  seemed  hmg  indeed  to  her 
in  those  moments  of  dread  suspense;  but 
the  space  was  at  last  traversed,  the  trees 
were  n^ached,  and  ])lunging  into  the  midst 
of  them,  she  ran  along,  occasionally  stum- 
bling, until  at  length,  partly  from  exhaust- 
ion and  i>artly  from  a  desire  to  see  where 
her  eiuMuy  might  be,  so  as  to  elude  him  bet- 
ter, she  stopped. 

Her  course  had  been  a  circuitous  one,  but 
she  had  kept  along  the  edge  of  the  wood,  so 
that  now,  as  she  stoi>ped,  she  found  hersi^lf 
nnch'r  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  and  imme- 
diately opposite  the  portico  of  Dalton  Hall, 
between  which  and  herself  lay  the  pond. 
Here  she  stood,  and  looked  over  the  inter- 
vening siiace. 

As  she  looked,  she  at  first  saw  no  appear- 
ance of  any  human  being,  and  she  began  to 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


109 


think  that  her  fears  all  along  had  been  un- 1      There  was  no  answer, 
founded;  but  in  a  little  while,  hh  her  eyes  |      She  knocked  uf^ain  and  again,  and  still  re- 
wandered  over  the  front  of  the  Hall,  she  saw    ceivinfj  no  answer,  she  opened  the  door  and 
something  which  at  once  renewed  all  her    looked  in. 


excitement,  and  showed  her  that  her  fears 
were  true. 

Upon  the  portico  stood  a  figure,  the  gen- 
eral outlines  of  which  were  now  visible  to 
her  as  she  looked  carefully,  and  seemed  to 


To  her  amazement  the  room  w;is  empty. 
What  wuH  more  surprising  was  ;lie  fact  that 
the  bed  did  not  appear  to  have  been  slept 
in.  There  was  no  diso'der  visible  in  the 
room.     Every  thing  was  in  its  usual  place, 


be  the  figure  of  Leon.  She  could  recognize  but  Edith  was  not  there,  and  in  that  one 
the  gray  dress  which  he  iisually  wore,  and  glance  which  Mrs.  Dunbar  gave  she  took  in 
also  understood  why  she  had  not  noticeil    the  whole  truth. 


him  before,  for  the  color  of  his  clothes  had 
nnule  him  but  faintly  visible  against  the 


Edith  had  tied! 

She  knew  also  that  she  must  have  fled 


gray  stone  mass  of  the  background.    Ho  was  during  the  night;  that  the  event  against 

now  standing  there  with  his  'ace  turned  in  which  such  precautions  had  been  taken  had 

her  direction.  occurred  at  hist,  and  that  she  was  res])onsi- 

"He  has  heard  me,"  she  thought.     "He  ble.    Over  that  sorrowful  anxious  face  there 

has  seen  me.    Insteiul  of  chawing  nie  at  once,  came  now  a  <leeper  sorrow  and  a  graver 

he  has  stopped  to  listen,  so  as  to  judge  of  anxiety  at  that  discovery,  and  sitting  down 

my  course.     He  knows  that  I  am  hero  now  upon  a  chair,  she  tried  to  conjecture  Edith's 

in  this  spot,  and  is  still  listening  to  tiud  out  possible  jourso,  and  wondered  liow  she  <u)uld 

if  I  go  any  further."  get  over  the  wall  and  out  of  the  grounds. 

In  a  few  mouients  her  .attention  was  at-  At  length  she  left  this  room,  and  going 

tracted  by  a  dark  object  lying  on  the  portico  down  stairs,  called  Hugo. 


near  Leon. 

It  was  the  dog! 

She  knew  i:t  well.  Her  heart  sank  within 
her. 

"  He  is  going  to  track  me  with  the  dog!" 
she  tiiouglit. 

What  could  she  do? 

Nothing.    Flight  was  now  worse  than  use- 


"  Hugo,"  said  she,  "  has  the  captain  come 
down !" 

"I  hahn't  seen  him,  ma'am,"  said  Hugo, 
respectfully. 

"  He  always  rises  early,"  said  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar. "  I  wonder  what's  the  matter.  He  cer- 
tainly nnist  be  up." 

Turning  away,  she  ascended  the  stairs, 


less.    All  seemed  lost,  and  then!  was  nothing    and  went  to  the  room  which  was  occupietl 
now  left  to  her  in  that  moment  of  despair    by  Leon.    The  ihior  was  open.     She  entered. 


but  the  resolve  to  resist  to  the  end. 


The  room  looked  as  though  it  had  just  been 


After  a  slioi't  time,  which  to  Edith  seem-    left  by  its  occupant.    The  bed  Imre  signs  of 


ed  prolonged  to  a  terrible  degree,  the  tigure 
came  down  the  steps,  followed  by  the  dog. 

Edith  watched. 

He  walked  on  ;  he  rounded  the  end  of  the 
pond  ;  he  came  nearer! 


having  been  occupied.  The  valise  was  lying 
there  open.  Upon  tlu»  toilet -table  was  a 
pocket-book,  and  hanging  from  the  sert-w 
of  the  looking-glass  was  his  waicli.  His 
riding  wiiip  and  gloves  and  top-boots  were 
Sli(!  could  now  recognize  his  face  as  the  j  lying  in  ditlerent  jilaces. 
moon  shone  down.  |      As  Mrs.  Dunliar  saw  all   this,  she   con- 

It  was  Leon.  There  was  no  longer  the  eluded  at  first  tliat  he  had  gone  out  tor  a 
slightest  doubt  of  that.  He  was  coming  walk,  and  would  soon  be  back  ;  but  the  late- 
toward  her,  and  the  huge  dog  f(dlowed.  iiess  of  tlie  hour  made  that  idea  seem  ab- 

Editli  involuntarily  shrank  back  among  surd,  and  showed  her  that  there  must  be 
the  trees,  and  grasping  her  tlagger  with  des-  some  othcrcanse.  Tiie  lliglil  of  I'.dith  there- 
l>erate  resolve,  awaited  the  approach  of  her  ujion  otein-rfd  to  her,  and  was  very  natu- 
euemy.  rally  associated  in  her  mind  with  the  depart- 

ure of  Leon.  Had  he  been  watciiiiig  ?  Had 
he  iletected  her  tlight,  and  gi>ne  in  pnrsnitf 
It  Si'emed  so.  H'so,  he  was  doubtless  yet  in 
]Mirsnit  of  the  fngitive,  who  must  have  lied 
fast  and  far  to  delay  him  so  long. 

Then  another  tiiought  came — the  idea  of 

viidence.     I'erhajis  he  had  caught  the  fugi- 

nd   vindictive  fury 

enongli 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE    KMPTY    HOOM9. 

On  the  following  morning  Mrs.  Dnnl)ar 
waite<l  a  long  time  for  Edith's  it]))ieai'ance. 

Hut  she  did  not  nnike  her  ap|)earance,  aiul    tive,  and  in   his  rage 
the  time  jtassed,  until  it  at  lengtii  grew  so    had  harmed  her.    Tliat  he  was  tier 


late  that  she  determined  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  Full  of  fear  lest  some  new  illness 
had  been  the  result  of  the  new  excitement 
to  which  she  had  been  subjected,  Mrs.  Dun- 
bar passed  cautiously  through   Editii's  sit- 


for  any  atrocity  she  well  knew;  and  the 
thouglit  tliat  he  had  killed  her,  and  had  tied, 
came  swift  as  lightning  to  her  miinl. 

The  idea  was  terrible.     She  could  not  en- 
dure it.     .She  left  the  room  and  hurried  dowu 


ting-room,  and  knocked  at  her  bedroom  door,  i  stairs  again. 


110 


THE  LIVIN6  LINK. 


"  Hugo,"  said  she,  "  go  down  and  ask  the 
porter  if  lie  has  seen  the  captain  or  Miss 
Dalton." 

"Miss  Dalton!"  exclaimed  Hugo. 

"  Yes ;  she's  gone." 

"  Gone !"  repeated  Hugo,  in  ai  lazcment. 

He  said  no  more,  but  hurried  down  to  the 
gates,  while  Mrs.  iJunbar,  who  felt  restless 
and  ill  at  ease,  walked  up  the  stairs,  and  feel- 
ing fatigued,  stopped  on  the  landing,  and 
leaned  against  the  window  there,  looking  out 
upon  the  ground  in  the  rear  of  the  Hall. 

Standing  here,  her  eyes  were  attracted  by  a 
sight  which  made  her  start.  It  was  the  New- 
foundland dog.  He  was  standing  at  some 
tlistanco  from  the  house,  looking  straight 
ahead  at  vacancy,  in  a  rigid  attitude.  The 
sight  of  this  animal,  who  was  always  the  in- 
separable companion  of  his  master,  standing 
there  in  so  peculiar  a  fashion  by  himself, 
excited  Mrs.  Dunbar;  and  forgetful  of  her 
weariness,  she  descended  the  stairs  again, 
and  quitting  the  Hall,  approached  the  spot 
whe;     'l>e  dog  was  standing. 

As  .5iie  approached,  the  dog  looked  at  her 
and  wagged  his  tail.  She  called  him.  He 
went  on  wagging  his  tail,  but  did  not  move 
from  the  spot.  She  went  up  to  him  and 
stroked  him.  and  looked  all  around,  hoping 
to  see  some  signs  of  his  master.  She  looked 
in  the  direction  in  which  the  dog  had  been 
staring  wIkmi  she  first  noticed  him.  Tlie 
stables  seemed  to  be  the  place.  Toward 
these  she  walked,  and  tried  to  induce  the 
dog  to  follow,  but  he  wcnild  not.  She  then 
walked  over  to  the  stables,  and  looked 
through  them,  without  seeing  any  trace  of 
the  object  of  her  search.  Upon  this  she  re- 
tnrnecl  to  the  house. 

On  coming  back  she  found  Hugo.  He  had 
been  to  the  gates,  ho  said  ;  but  the  ])ort<!r 
had  seen  nothing  whatever  either  of  the 
ca])taiu  or  Miss  Dalton. 

This  intelligence  deepened  the  anxious 
expression  on  Mrs.  Dunbar's  face. 

"  His  dog  is  here,"  said  she,  in  a  trenuilous 
voice. 

"  His  dog !"  said  Hugo.  "  Oli  yes ;  he's  ben 
out  dar  all  <le  mornin'.  Duniio  what  de 
matta  wid  dat  ar  animal  at  all.  Stands 
dar  like  a  gravy  statoo." 

For  the  rest  of  that  day  Mrs.  Dunbar  was 
restless  aud  distressed.  She  waud»'red  aim- 
lessly about  the  house.  She  sent  Hugo  off 
to  scour  the  grounds  to  see  if  he  could  liiid 
any  trace  of  either  of  the  fugitives.  Every 
moment  she  would  look  out  from  any  win- 
dow or  door  that  happened  to  be  nearest,  to 
see  if  either  of  them  was  returning,  liut  the 
day  passed  by,  and  Hugo  came  back  from 
his  long  search,  but  of  neither  of  the  fugi- 
tives was  a  single  trace  found. 

What  atVected  Mrs.  Dunbar  as  much  as  any 
thing  was  the  behaviorof  thedog.  Throiigli 
all  that  day  he  remained  in  the  sanitt  place, 
sometimes  standing,  sometimes  lying  down, 


but  never  going  away  more  than  a  few  feet. 
That  the  dog  had  some  meaning  in  this  singu- 
lar behavior,  and  that  this  moaning  had  ref- 
erence to  the  flight  of  one  or  the  other  of  the 
late  inunites  of  the  house,  was  very  evident 
to  her.  No  persuasion,  or  coaxing,  or  even 
threatening  coidd  draw  tho  dog  away ;  and 
even  when  Hugo  fired  a  gun  ott'  close  to  his 
head,  he  quivered  in  every  nerve,  but  only 
moved  back  a  foot  or  two.  Food  and  drink 
were  brought  to  him,  of  which  he  partook 
with  a  most  eager  appetite,  but  no  temjttation 
coidd  draw  him  any  distance  fronr  his  ])ost. 

That  night  was  a  sleepless  one  for  Mrs. 
Dunbar ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeliiig  of  great 
relief  that  she  heard  the  noise  of  a  carriage 
early  on  the  following  day,  and  knew  that 
Wiggins  had  returned. 

She  hurried  down  at  once,  and  met  him 
in  the  great  hall.  In  a  few  words  she  told 
him  all. 

For  such  intelligence  as  this  Wiggins  was 
evidently  uni)repared.  He  staggered  back 
and  leaned  against  the  wall,  staring  at  Mrs. 
Dunbar  with  a  terrible  look. 

"What!  Gone!"  he  said, slowly.  "Edith!" 

"  Yes ;  and  Leon." 

"  Edith  gone!"  gasjied  Wiggins  once  more. 

"  Did  you  hear  nothing  in  the  village  V 

"  I  drove  through  without  stopping.  Did 
you  send  to  the  village?" 

"  I  did  not  think  that  they  could  have  got 
out  of  the  grounds." 

"  They !    There's  no  trouble  about  Leon  ?" 

"  I'm  afraid — for  him,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
in  a  faint  voice. 

"  For  him !"  exclaimed  Wiggins.  "  What 
can  happen  to  '  'm?     For  her,  you  mean." 

"  They  must  nave  gone  off  together." 

"Togt^ther!  Do  you  think  Edith  would 
go  with  him  f  No ;  she  has  Hed  in  her  mad- 
ness and  ignorance,  turning  her  back  on 
hai»i)ines8  and  love,  and  he  has  pursued  her. 
O  Heavens!"  he  continued,  with  a  groan, 
"to  think  that  it  should  end  in  this!  And 
cursed  l»e  that  scoundrel — " 

"  Stop !"  cried  Mrs.  Dunbar.  "  He  is  not 
a  scoundrel.  He  would  not  harm  her.  You 
don't  know  Leon.  He  has  not  left  the  place; 
his  dog  is  here." 

"His  dog!" 

Mrs.  Dunbar  explained. 

Upon  this  Wiggins  went  tlnough  the  hall 
to  tiie  rear,  and  theie,  in  tho  same  place 
as  where  Mrs.  Dunbar  last  saw  him,  was  tho 
dog.  He  was  lying  down  now.  H<i  wagged 
his  tail  in  frientlly  recognition  as  they  came 
np.  Wiggins  patted  him  and  stroked  him 
and  tried  to  coax  him  away.  The  result  was 
jirecisely  the  same  as  it  had  been  before. 
The  dog  received  all  advances  in  the  most 
friendly  manner  possible.  He  wagged  his 
tail,  rolled  over  on  his  back,  licked  their 
hands,  sat  <i|)  on  his  hind-quarters,  and  did 
every  thing  which  dogs  usually  ilo  when  pet- 
ted or  played  with,  but  nothing  would  in- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Ill 


diicc  him  to  leave  the  placo.  He  did  not 
ajjliinr  to  be  in  nny  trouble.  H'l  seemed 
Hiniply  to  have  made  up  hia  mind  to  stay 
there,  and  thin  resolution  he  maintained 
most  ohstinately. 

Wi>?K'"8  could  make  nothing  of  it ;  but 
the  sight  of  the  dog  renewed  the  terrors  of 
Mrs.  Dunbar. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  she— "I'm  afraid  that 
something's  happened  to  Leon." 

"To  Leon!"  exclaimed  Wiggins,  impa- 
tiently ;  "  what  could  happen  to  him  f  I  told 
him  to  quit  this  place,  and  he  has  probably 
concluded  to  do  so." 

"  But  what  do  you  think  of  his  flight  at 
the  same  time  with  Kdith  f" 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think  of  it.  I  only 
know  this,  that  if  he  has  harmed  one  hair  of 
her  head,  I — I'll — kill  him!  My  own  inju- 
ries I  will  forgive,  but  wrongs  done  to  her  I 
will  avenge !" 

At  this  Mrs.  Dunbpr  shrank  away,  and 
looked  at  Wiggins  in  fear. 

"  But  it  may  be  all  the  other  w.ay,"  said 
she,  in  a  tremulous  voice.  "  Edith  was  ter- 
rible in  her  fury.  She  was  no  timid,  falter- 
ing girl;  she  was  resolute  and  vindictive. 
If  he  has  followed  her,  or  laid  hands  on  .'  er, 
she  may  have — "     She  hesitated. 

"  May  have  what  ?"  asked  Wiggins. 

"  She  m.ay  have  done  him  some  harm." 

"She  may  have  done  him  some  harm!"  re- 
peated Wiggins,  with  a  sneer.  "  What !  and 
when  ho  had  his  big  dog  to  protect  liimf 
Pooh !" 

And  with  a  scornful  laugh  he  turned  away. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  followed  him. 

"  She  was  so  terrible  in  her  despair,"  said 
she,  as  she  followed  him ;  "  she  looked  like 
a  fury — beatitiful,  yet  implacable." 

"  Sihniee!"  cried  Wiggins.  "  Stop  all  that 
nonsense,  or  you'll  drive  me  mad.  Are  you 
crazy?  When  I  am  almost  broken-hearted 
in  my  anxiety  about  her,  what  do  yon  mc^an 
by  turning  against  that  wronged  and  injured 
girl,  who  I  now  see  has  been  driven  to  de- 
spair by  my  own  cursed  mistakes,  and  pre- 
tending that  she  is  the  aggressor,  and  your 
scoiuidrel  Leon  the  victim  f ' 

In  the  midst  of  this  Wiggins  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  approach  of  Hugo. 

"  A  geu'l'mau,  Sah,  wants  to  see  you,  Sah," 
said  he. 

"  A  gentleman,"  repeated  Wiggins.  "  Who 
is  he  T     How  did  ho  come  here  ?" 

"  Dunno,  Sah,  nuffin  'bout  dat,  Sah." 

"  li's  about  Edith !"  exclaimed  Wiggins ; 
and  he  hurried  into  the  house. 


»et- 
iu- 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

THE    VICAR    OF    DALTOX. 

Wiggins  entered  the  drawing-room,  and 
found  his  visitor  there.  He  was  a  slight 
man,  with  light  hair,  watery  gray  eyes,  and 


very  mild  demeanor.  The  timidity  of  the 
man  seemed  very  marked;  there  was  an 
ap(dogetic  air  about  him ;  and  his  very  ftmt- 
fall  as  he  advanced  to  greet  Wiggins  seemed 
to  deprecate  some  anticipated  rough  treat- 
ment. Ho  spoke  a  few  words,  and  at  Wig- 
gins's  request  to  be  seated  he  sa*  down,  while 
his  agitation  increased ;  and  he  had  that 
hesitating,  half-abstracted  manner  whicli 
marks  the  man  who  is  on  the  point  of  giv- 
ing unpleasiint  infonnation,  about  the  ef- 
fect of  which  he  is  doubtful. 

W'iggins,  on  his  part,  did  not  seem  to  no- 
tice this.  He  sat  down,  and  looked  with 
earnest  in(]uiry  at  his  visitor.  He  seemed 
to  know  what  was  the  object  of  this  visit, 
and  yet  to  dread  to  ask  it. 

The  visitor  had  given  his  name  as  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Munn,  and  Wiggins  recognized 
that  name  as  belonging  to  the  parish  vicar. 
That  name  excited  strange  emotions  within 
him,  for  it  was  the  same  name  that  had  a])- 
peared  in  the  jiapers  in  connection  with 
Edith's  marriage. 

"Well!"  said  Wiggins  at  last,  in  some 
impatience. 

Mr.  Munn  cleared  his  tliroat. 

"  I  have  come  here,"  he  began,  "  to  tell 
you  very  distressing  news." 

Wiggins  was  silent. 

"  I  refer  to — a — a — Mrs.  Dudleigh,"  said 
Mr.  Munn. 

"  W^ell  V  said  Wiggins,  in  a  scarcely  audi- 
ble voice. 

"  She  is  at  the  village  iini." 

"At  the  village  inn!"  repeated  Wiggins, 
in  evident  agitation,  drawing  a  long  breath. 
"  She  is  alive,  then  ?"  he  added,  eagerly. 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  Munn;  "she  came 
there  early  yesterday  morning."  And  then 
he  went  on  to  tell  his  story,  the  substance 
of  which  was  as  follows: 

On  the  previous  niorniug  about  dawn  the 
l)eoplo  at  the  Dalton  Inn  were  aroused  by  a 
liurried  knock.  On  going  to  the  d(«)r  they 
found  Mrs.  Dudleigh.  The  moment  that  the 
door  was  opened  she  sprang  in  and  fell  ex- 
hausted to  the  floor.  So  gn'at  was  her 
weakness  that  she  couhl  not  rise  again,  and 
had  to  be  carried  uj)  to  one  of  the  bedrooms. 
She  was  so  faint  that  she  could  scarcely 
speak ;  and  in  a  feeble  voice  she  implored 
them  to  put  her  to  bed,  as  it  was  a  long  time 
since  she  had  had  any  rest,  and  was  almost 
dead  with  fatigue. 

Her  condition  was  most  pitiable.  Her 
clothes  were  all  torn  to  shreds,  and  covered 
with  mud  and  dust ;  her  hands  were  torn 
and  bleeding ;  her  shoes  had  been  worn  into 
rags;  and  she  looked  as  thinigh  she  had 
been  wandering  for  hours  through  woods 
and  swami)s,  and  over  rocks  and  sand.  To 
all  their  iniiuiries  she  answered  nothing, 
but  only  implored  them  to  put  lu'r  to  l^jd 
and  let  her  rest ;  above  all,  she  prayed  most 
piteously  that  they  would  tell  no  one  that 


118 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


she  was  tlioro.  This  they  promiMcd  to  do; 
and,  indeed,  it  would  have  been  ditHcult 
for  them  to  have  informed  about  h*^,  since 
none  at  tlie  inn  had  over  seen  Iier  before,  ur 
had  the  remotest  idea  who  she  eonld  bo. 

Full  of  pity  and  sympathy,  they  juit  her 
to  b(;d,  and  the  landlady  wutehod  over  her 
most  assidnonsly.  All  the  morning  she  slept 
profoundly ;  but  at  about  noon  she  waked 
with  a  scream,  like  one  who  has  been  routed 
from  some  fearful  dream. 

After  that  she  grew  steadily  worse.  Fe- 
ver set  in,  and  became  more  and  more  vio- 
lent every  moment.  In  their  anxiety  to  do 
what  she  had  requested,  and  keep  her  se- 
cret, they  did  not  send  innnediately  for  a 
doctor.  Hut  her  condition  soon  became 
such  that  further  delay  was  out  of  tlio 
((uestion,  so  they  sent  for  the  village  phy- 
sician. 

When  ho  orrived  she  was  much  worse. 
She  was  in  a  high  fever,  and  already  deliri- 
ous. He  pronounced  her  situation  to  lie 
dangerous  in  the  extreme,  urged  upon  tlmni 
the  greatest  care,  and  advised  them  to  lose 
no  time  in  letting  her  friends  know  about 
her  c(Uulition.  Here  was  a  dileninia  for 
these  worthy  people.  They  did  not  know 
who  her  friends  were,  and  thentfore  could 
not  send  for  them,  while  it  became  impos- 
sible to  keep  her  presence  at  the  inn  a  si;- 
eret.  Not  knowing  what  else  to  do,  they 
concluded  to  send  for  the  vicar. 

When  Mr.  Munn  came  he  found  them  in 
great  distress.  Ho  soon  learned  Hie  facts 
of  the  case,  and  at  t>nco  decided  that  it 
should  be  made  known  to  (Captain  Dndleigh 
or  to  Wiggins.  For  though  he  did  not  know 
Edith's  face,  still,  from  the  disconnected 
words  that  had  dropped  from  lu-r  during 
her  delirium,  reported  to  him  by  the  inn 
people,  he  thought  it  probalde  that  she  was 
the  very  lady  whom  he  had  married  un- 
der such  mysterious  circumstances.  So  ho 
soothed  the  fears  of  the  landlady  as  well  as 
he  could,  and  then  left.  It  was  laf»i  at 
night  when  ho  went  from  the  inn,  and  ho 
had  waited  till  the  nuirning  before  going  to 
Dalton  Hall.  Ho  had  some  ditliculty  in 
getting  in  at  the  gate,  but  when  the  porter 
learned  the  object  of  his  visit  ho  at  once 
opened  to  him.  From  the  porter  he  learned 
of  tho  disappearance  of  Captain  Dndleigh 
also.  Nothing  was  then  left  but  to  see  Wig- 
gins. Accordingly  he  had  conn*  to  the  Hall 
at  once,  so  as  to  tell  his  message  with  tho 
shortest  possible  (h'lay. 

To  this  recital  Wiggins  listened  with  grav- 
ity. Ho  made  no  gesture,  and  be  spoke  no 
word,  but  sat  with  folded  arms,  looking 
upon  t\ui  floor.  When  Mr.  Munn  had  end- 
ed, he,  after  a  long  silence,  turned  toward 
him  and  said,  in  a  severe  tone, 

'*  Well,  Sir,  now  I  hope  you  see  something 
of  the  evil  of  that  course  which  you  chose  to 
pursue." 


"Evil?  course?"  stammered  Mr.  Munn. 
"  I  don't  un«ler8tand  you." 

"Oh,  I  think  you  understand  me,"  said 
Wiggins,  gloomily.  "Has  not  your  con- 
science already  suggested  to  you  tho  proba- 
ble cause  of  this  strangtt  course  of  her  whom 
you  call  Mrs.  Dndleigh  t" 

"  My  conscience !"  gasped  Mr.  Munn ; 
"  what  has  my  conscience  to  «lo  with  it  f" 

"  How  long  is  it  since  that  wretched 
mockery  at  which  you  oflSciatedT"  asked 
Wiggins,  sternly. 

"I  really — I  think — a  few  months  only." 

"A  few  months,"  repeated  Wiggins. 
"  Well,  it  has  come  to  this.  That  is  the  im- 
mediate cause  of  her  flight,  and  of  her  pres- 
ent sufteriug." 

"I  —  I  —  married  them,"  stannnered  Mr. 
Munn ;  "  but  what  of  that  f  Is  her  nnhap- 
piness  my  fault  T  How  can  I  help  it  T  Am 
I  responsible  for  tho  future  condition  of 
those  couples  whom  I  nuirry  t  Surely  this 
is  a  strange  thing  to  say." 

"  You  well  know,"  said  Wiggins,  "  what 
sort  of  a  marriage  this  was.  It  was  no  com- 
mon one.  It  was  done  in  secret.  Why  did 
you  steal  into  these  grounds  like  a  thief,  and 
do  this  infamous  thing t" 

"  Why — why,"  faltered  the  nnhapi)y  vicar, 
growing  more  territied  and  conscience-strick- 
en every  minute — "  Captain  DiuUeigh  asked 
me.     I  can  not  refuse  to  marry  people." 

"  No,  Sir,  you  can  not  when  they  como  to 
you  fairly  ;  you  can  not,  I  well  know,  when 
the  conditions  of  the  law  are  satisfied.  IJut 
was  that  so  here  f  Did  yon  not  steal  into 
these  grounds  f  Did  you  not  como  by  night, 
in  secret,  conscious  that  yon  were  doing 
wrong,  and  did  you  not  have  to  steal  out  in 
tho  same  way?  And  yonr  only  excuse  is 
that  Captain  Dndleigh  asked  you !" 

"  He — he — showed  very  strong  reasons 
why  I  should  do  so,"  said  Mr.  Munn,  who 
by  this  time  was  fearfully  agitated — "  very 
strong  reasons,  I  do  assure  you.  Sir,  and  all 
my  hunKiuity  was — a — aroused." 

"  Yonr  humanity !"  sneered  Wiggins. 
"  Where  was  your  humanity  for  her  1" 

"  For  her !"  exclaimed  the  vicar.  "  Why, 
she  wanted  it.     She  loved  him." 

"Loved  him!  Pooh!  She  hated  him  worse 
than  the  devil." 

"  Then  what  did  she  many  him  for?"  cried 
Mr.  Munn,  .at  his  wits'  end. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Wiggins;  "you  went 
out  of  your  way  to  do  a  deed  the  conse- 
quences of  which  can  not  yet  bo  seen.  I 
can  understand,  Sir,  how  Captain  I)u<lleigh 
could  have  planned  this  thing ;  but  how 
you,  a  calm,  (piiet  clergyman,  in  the  full 
possession  of  your  faculties,  could  have  ever 
Iteen  led  to  take  jtart  in  it,  is  more  than  I 
can  coin])relien(l.  I,  Sir,  was  her  guardian, 
appointed  as  such  by  her  father,  my  own 
intimate  friend,  ('aptain  Dmlleigh  was  a 
villain.     He   sought   out   this   thoughtless 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


118 


child  mprely  for  lior  money.  It  was  not  her 
thut  ho  wanttMl,  )mt  her  eHtate.  I  could 
enHJly  have  Haved  lier  from  thin  dai)ji;er.  He 
had  no  cliance  witli  nio.  lint  you  cuine  for- 
ward— you,  Sir — Muddenly,  without  cauHe, 
without  a  word  of  warniuf; — you  Hiieak  here 
in  tlio  dark,  you  entice  lier  to  that  lonely 
place,  and  there  you  bind  her  body  and  soul 
to  a  scoundrel.  Now,  Sir,  what  have  you 
got  to  say  for  yourself  f" 

Mr.  Muini's  teeth  chattered,  and  his  hands 
clutched  one  another  convulsively.  "  Cap- 
tain Diidleigh  told  me  that  she  was  under 
restraint  here  by — V»y  yon— and  that  she 
loved  him,  and  that  her  only  refujje  was  to 
be  married  to  him.  I'm  sure  I  didn't  meau 
to  do  any  harm." 

"  Knbbish !"  said  Wiggins,  contemptuous- 
ly. "  The  law  gives  a  guardian  a  certain 
right  to  parental  restraint  for  the  good  of 
the  ward.  The  slight  restraint  to  which 
she  was  subjected  was  accompanied  by  the 
deepest  love  of  those  who  cared  for  her  here. 
I  had  hoped.  Sir,  that  you  might  have  some- 
thing ditterent  to  tell  me.  I  did  not  know 
that  you  had  actually  acted  so  madly.  I 
thought  the  story  which  I  heard  of  that 
marriage  was  incredible,  and  I  have  always 
spoken  of  it  as  a  mockery.  But  from  what 
I  now  gather  from  you,  it  seems  to  have 
been  a  bona  fide  m.irriage,  true  and  valid." 

"  I — I'm  afraid  it — it  was,"  said  Mr.  Munn. 

Wiggins  gave  something  that  was  almost 
like  a  groan. 

"  Fiends,"  he  cried,  passionately,  rising 
from  his  chair — "fiends  from  the  bottomless 
pit  could  not  have  more  foully  and  fatal- 
ly deceived  that  poor,  thoughtless,  trustful 
child.  But  all  their  trickery  and  treachery 
could  never  have  succeeded  had  they  not 
found  a  piiltry  tool  in  a  senseless  creature 
like  you — you,  >Sir — who  could  stand  there 
and  go  mumbling  yonr  marriage  service,  and 
never  see  the  infernal  jugglery  that  was 
going  on  under  your  very  eyes.  Yes,  you, 
Sir,  who  now  come  to  wring  and  break  my 
heart  by  the  awful  tidings  that  you  now  tell 
me.  Aw.ay !  Begone  !  I  have  already  borne 
more  than  my  share  of  anguish ;  but  this,  if 
it  goes  on,  will  kill  me  or  drive  me  mad !" 

He  turned  away,  with  his  head  bent,  with 
an  unsteady  step,  and  walked  toward  the 
window,  where  he  stood  leaning  against  it 
heavily,  and  staring  out  at  vacancy. 

As  for  Mr.  Munn,  he  gave  one  glance  of 
horror  at  Wiggins,  and  then,  with  a  swift, 
frightened  step,  he  hurried  from  the  Hall. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

THE  HOUSK   OF  REFUGE. 

The  illness  of  Edith  was  of  no  light  or 
common  kind.     Her  old  glow  of  health  hiid 
not  yet  returned.     The  state  of  affairs  at 
H 


Dalton  Hall  had  retarded  any  thiiig  like  a 
complete  recovery,  and  wlien  she  started  otf 
on  her  desperate  llight,  she  was  untit  for  such 
a  venture.  Through  that  terrilde  night  she 
had  undergone  \>hat  might  have  laid  low 
a  strong  num,  and  the  strengtii  which  had 
barely  carried  her  to  the  door  of  the  inn  had 
there  left  her  utterly ;  and  so  tierce  was  the 
attack  that  was  now  made  u])on  her  by  this 
new  illness  that  recovery  seemed  scarce  pos- 
sible. 

The  doctor  was  as  non-committal  as  doc- 
tors usually  are  in  a  really  dangerous  case. 
It  was  evident,  however,  from  tlie  tirst,  that 
her  situation  awakened  in  his  mind  tlie  very 
deepest  anxiety.  He  urged  tlie  landlady  to 
keep  the  house  in  the  (juietest  jtossilile  c(m- 
<lition,  and  to  see  that  slm  was  never  left 
without  attendants.  This  the  landlady 
promised  to  do,  and  was  unremitting  in  her 
attentions. 

But  all  the  care  of  the  attendants  seemed 
useless.  Deeper  and  <leeper  Etlitli  descended 
into  the  abyss  of  suftering.  Day  succeeded 
to  day,  and  found  her  worse.  Fortunately 
she  was  not  conscious  of  what  she  had  to  en- 
dure; but  in  that  iniconsciousness  her  mind 
wandered  in  delirium,  and  all  the  sorrows 
of  the  past  were  lived  over  again. 

They  knew  not,  those  good  kind  souls 
who  waited  and  watdujd  at  her  bedside, 
what  it  was  that  thus  rose  before  her,  and 
distressed  her  in  the  visions  of  her  distem- 
pered brain,  but  they  could  see  that  these 
were  the  result  of  deep  grief  and  long  s(»r- 
row,  and  therefore  they  pitied  her  more  than 
ever.  As  her  mind  thus  wandered,  she  talk- 
ed incessantly,  often  in  broken  words,  but 
often  also  in  long  connected  sentences,  and 
all  these  were  intermingled  with  moans  and 
sighs. 

"This  is  heart-rending,"  said  the  doctor 
once.  "  It  is  her  mind,  poor  lady,  that  has 
brought  on  this  illness.  In  this  case  medi- 
cine is  of  no  use.  You  can  do  mtn-e  than  I 
can.  You  must  watch  over  her,  and  keep 
her  as  quiet  as  she  can  be  kept." 

All  of  which  the  landlady  promised  more 
fervently  than  ever, and  kept  hcrijromist!  too. 

But  in  spite  of  all  this  care,  the  fever  and 
the  delirium  grew  worse.  T'le  events  of  her 
Dalton  life  rose  before  her  to  the  exclusiou 
of  all  other  memories,  an<'.  tilled  all  her 
thoughts.  In  her  fancies  Khe  again  lived 
that  lift)  of  mingled  anxiety  and  fear,  and 
chafed  and  raged  and  trembled  by  turns  at 
the  restraint  which  she  felt  around  her. 
Then  she  tried  to  escape,  but  escai)e  was 
impossible.  Then  she  seemed  to  speak  with 
some  one  who  promised  deliverance.  Eager- 
ly and  earnestly  she  implored  this  one  to  as- 
sist her,  and  mentioned  plans  of  escape. 

Most  of  all,  however,  lier  thoughts  turned 
to  that  scene  in  the  Dalton  vaults.  The  dead 
seemed  all  around.  Amidst  the  darkness 
she  saw  the  ghosts  of  her  ancestors.     They 


^ 


114 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


frowned  monacin^ly  upon  hpr,  an  on  one  who 
wiiH  bringinK  diHhonor  upon  a  noblo  name. 
Tlify  pointwi  at  lier  scornfully  with  th<!ir 
wan  fingorH.  Doop  nioauH  Nhowntl  the  hor- 
ror of  her  Hoiii,  lint  aniiilHt  thtmo  nioauH  bIio 
]irot(>Htc(l  that  Hho  wan  innocent. 

Tiicn  her  tli^ht  from  thu  Hall  canio  up 
hi'foro  her.  Slie  Hccniud  to  bo  wandering 
through  woodH  and  tliickcts  and  swanipH, 
over  rockn  and  fallen  treeH. 

"Shall  I  never  get  out!"  she  murmured. 
"  Hhall  I  never  get  to  the  wall  f  I  Nhall  periHh 
in  thi    forcHt.     I  am  Hinking  in  tlilH  mire." 

Then  Hhe  Haw  houio  enemy.  "It  is  he!" 
Hhe  murmured,  in  low  thrilling  tones.  "  He 
is  coming!  I  will  never  go  back — no,  nev- 
er! I  will  die  first!  I  have  my  dagger — I 
will  kill  him!  Ho  shall  mtver  tiiko  nui  there 
— never,  never,  never!  I  will  kill  him — I 
will  kill  him!" 

Alter  which  oamo  a  low  groan,  followed 
by  a  long  silence. 

So  she  went  on  in  her  agony,  but  her  de- 
liricuis  words  carried  no  conn<!cted  meaning 
to  her  attendants.  They  could  oidy  look 
at  one  another  inquiringly,  and  shake  their 
heads.  "She  has  been  unhap])y  in  her  mar- 
ried life,  poor  dear,"  said  the  landlady  once, 
with  a  sigh ;  and  this  seemed  to  bo  the  gen- 
eral imi)reHsion,  and  the  only  one  which  they 
gathered  froni  her  words. 

Thus  a  fortnight  passed  away. 

At  length  tlie  lowest  stage  of  the  disease 
was  reached.  It  was  the  turning-point,  and 
beyond  that  lay  either  death  or  recovery. 
All  night  long  the  landlady  watched  besid<! 
the  bed  of  the  poor  sufferer,  who  now  lay  in 
a  deep  sleep,  scarce  breathing,  while  the  doc- 
tor, who  came  in  at  midnight,  remained  till 
morning. 

Morning  came  at  length,  and  Edith 
awaked.  The  delirium  had  passed.  She 
looked  around  inquiringly,  but  could  recall 
nothing. 

"Auntie  dear,"  she  said,  feebly,  "where 
are  you  T" 

"  There  isn't  no  auntie,  dear,"  said  the 
landlady,  gently.  "  You  are  at  Dalton  Inn. 
But  don't  speak,  dearie — you  are  too  weak." 

"  Dalton  Inn,"  repeated  Edith,  in  a  faint 
voice.  She  looked  puzzled,  for  she  was  as 
yet  too  confused  to  remember.  Gradually, 
however,  memory  awaked,  and  though  the 
recollection  of  her  illness  was  a  blank,  yet 
the  awful  life  that  she  had  lived,  and  her 
flight  from  that  life,  with  all  its  accompani- 
ments, came  gradually  b.ack. 

She  looked  at  the  landlady  with  a  face  of 
agony. 

"  Promise,"  said  she,  faintly. 

"  Promise  what,  dearie  T" 

"  Proujise — that — you  will  not — send  nie 
away." 

"Lord  love  you!  send  you  away!  Not 
me." 

"  Promise,"  said  Edith,  in  feverish  impa- 


tience, "  that  yon  will  not  let  them  take  me 
— till  I  want  to  go." 

"Never;  no  one  shall  touch  a  hair  of  your 
head,  dearie — till  you  wish  it." 

The  tone  of  the  landlady  gave  Etlith  even 
more  conlldence  than  her  words.  "Oo<l 
bless  you!"  she  sighed,  and  turned  her  head 
away. 

A  week  passed,  atid  Edith  continued  to 
get  bt.'tter  every  day.  Although  her  re- 
membrances were  bitter  and  her  thoughts 
most  distressing,  yet  there  was  something  in 
her  present  situation  which  was,  on  the 
whole,  conducive  to  health.  For  the  first 
time  in  many  months  she  felt  herself  free 
from  that  irksome  and  galling  control  which 
had  been  so  maddening  to  her  proud  nature. 
Her  life  in  Dalton  Hall  had  been  one  long 
struggle,  in  which  her  spirit  had  chafed  in- 
cessantly at  the  barriers  around  it,  and  had 
well-nigh  worn  itself  out  in  maintaining  its 
unconquerable  attitude.  Now  all  this  was 
over.  She  trusted  this  honest  and  tender- 
hearted landlady.  It  was  the  first  frank 
and  o]ien  face  wliicli  she  had  seen  since  she 
left  scho(d.  She  knew  that  here  at  last  she 
would  have  rest,  at  least  until  her  recov- 
ery. What  she  might  do  then  was  another 
(luestion,  but  the  answer  to  this  she  chose 
to  put  off. 

But  all  this  time,  while  Edith  had  been 
lying  prostrate  and  senseless  at  the  inn,  a 
great  and  mighty  excitement  had  arisen  and 
spn-ad  throughout  the  country,  and  all  men 
were  discussing  one  conunon  subject — the 
mysterious  disappearance  of  Captain  Dud- 
leigh. 

Ho  had  become  well  known  in  the  village, 
where  ho  had  resided  for  some  time.  His 
rank,  his  reputed  wealth,  and  his  personal 
appearance  had  all  m.ade  him  a  man  of 
mark.  His  marriage  with  Miss  Dalton,  who 
was  known  to  be  his  cousin,  had  been  pub- 
licly announced,  and  had  excited  very  gen- 
eral surjirise,  chiefly  because  it  was  not 
known  that  Miss  Dalton  had  returned.  The 
gentry  had  not  called  on  the  bride,  however, 
partly  on  account  of  the  cloud  that  hung 
over  the  Dalton  name,  but  more  especially 
on  account  of  the  air  of  mystery  that  hung 
about  the  marriage,  and  the  impression  that 
was  prevalent  that  calls  were  not  expected. 

The  marriage  had  been  largely  commented 
upon,  but  had  been  generally  apprqved.  It 
had  taken  place  within  the  family,  aiul  the 
stain  on  the  Dalton  name  could  tlius  be  ob- 
literated by  merging  it  with  that  of  Dud- 
leigh.  It  seemed,  therefore,  wise  and  ap- 
propriate and  politic,  and  the  reserve  of  ^no 
married  couple  was  generally  considered  as 
a  mark  of  delicacy,  good  taste,  and  graceful 
respect  for  public  opinicm. 

Captain  Dudleigh  had  at  first  been  asso- 
ciiited  with  a  friend  and  relative  of  his, 
Lieutenant  Dudleigh,  who  had  made  him- 
self quite  popular  in   the  outside   world. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


115 


Neither  of  them,  however,  had  gnnei  into 
soriety.  It  v/an  utKliTstood  that  LitMitenunt 
Diidlt'ijjh  lind  come  HJinply  for  the  iJiirpoHe 
uf  lieiii;{  tlie  captain'H  f^rooiiiHinati,  and 
when,  after  tlie  marriage,  lie  diHai)i)eared, 
nothinjf  nion^  wan  tlionglit  about  him. 

Occupying  aH  lie  did  tliJH  place  in  the  at- 
tention of  the  county  people,  Captain  Dud- 
Icijth'n  diHappearancu  <;reated  an  excitement 
which  can  eauily  bo  imaKiued.  Who  lirMt 
Ntarted  the  re|)ort  could  not  be  found  out, 
but  no  HoiiiuT  had  it  been  Htarted  than  it 
spread  like  wild-lire. 

Moreover,  in  Hjtite  of  the  landlady's  care, 
they  had  heard  of  Edith's  llight  and  .ilness, 
and  naturally  associated  these  two  startling 
facts  t(»gether.  Tiic  Dalton  name  was  al- 
ready covered  with  deep  disgrace,  and  that 
another  tragedy  should  take  place  in  con- 
nection with  it  was  felt  to  bo  very  natural. 
Week  after  week  jtassed  on,  and  still  there 
were  no  tidings  of  the  missing  man.  With 
the  la])so  of  each  week  the  excitement  onl> 
increased.  Throughout  the  wludo  count 
this  was  the  conunou  topic  of  conversation. 
It  was  matter  for  far  more  than  the  ordinary 
nine  days'  wonder,  for  about  this  there  was 
the  fascination  and  the  horror  of  an  impen- 
etrable mystery. 

For  it  was  universally  felt  that  in  some 
way  or  other  this  mystery  was  connected 
with  Edith,  and  that  its  solution  lay  with 
her.  It  was  universally  known  that  she 
liad  fled  from  Dalton  Hall  in  a  most  suspi- 
cious ami  unaccountable  manner,  and  that 
Captain  DiuUeigh  had  disapjteared  on  that 
very  night.  It  was  natural,  therefore,  that 
every  body  should  think  of  her  as  being,  to 
some  extent  at  least,  aware  of  the  fate  of 
Dudleigh,  and  that  she  alone  could  account 
for  it. 

And  so  the  excitement  grew  stronger  and 
stronger  every  day.  Gradually  the  whole 
public  came  to  know  something  about  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  ill-fated  marriage.  There 
seemed  to  be  some  power  at  work  which 
sent  forth  fresh  intelligence  at  various  in- 
tervals to  excite  ''  i  ptiblic  mind.  It  was 
not  Wiggins,  fr  fept  himself  in  strict  se- 

clusion ;  and  peo  ,\  ho  went  to  stare  at  the 
gates  of  Dalton  1  found  nothing  for  their 
pains.  It  could  not  have  been  the  vicar,  for 
his  terror  had  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  sim- 
ple imbecility.  There  was  some  other  cause, 
and  that  cause  seemed  always  at  work. 

From  this  mysterious  cause,  then,  the  pub- 
lic gained  a  version  of  the  story  of  thiit  mar- 
riage, which  was  circulated  every  where. 
Miss  Dalton,  it  was  said,  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Captain  Dudleigh,  but  her  guardian, 
Wiggins,  had  resisted  her  inclinations.  She 
determined  to  get  married  in  spite  of  him, 
and  Captain  Dudleigh  had  a  clergynuiu 
brought  into  the  park,  who  performed  the 
ceremony  secretly.  After  the  marriage,  how- 
over,  it  was  said,  Captain  Dudleigh  treated 


his  wife  badly,  and  clamored  for  money  to 
pay  his  debts.  His  wife  Mus]iccted  that  ho 
Inul  married  her  fur  this  sole  )iur])ose.  They 
qmirnded  incessantly.  Her  health  broke 
(lown  through  grief  and  disappointment, 
and  she  was  ill  for  a  long  time.  After  her 
Hfcoviry  they  had  several  stonny  interviews, 
in  which  she  had  threatened  his  life.  It 
was  said  that  she  always  carrieil  a  dagger, 
with  which  she  had  sworn  to  kill  him.  8I10 
had  tohl  him  to  his  face  that  she  would  have 
"  hin  heard  blood." 

Such  was  the  story  thatcircidated  far  and 
wide  among  all  classes.  None  had  seen 
Edith  persoiudly  exeejtt  the  doctor  and  those 
at  the  inn  ;  and  the  general  impression  about 
her  was  that  she  was  a  tierce,  bold,  impnt- 
nous  woman,  with  iron  resolution  and  nuis- 
culine  temper.  So,  on  tlu)  whole,  jniblic 
opinion  ran  high  against  her,  and  prolbund 
synijiathy  was  felt  for  the  injured  husband. 

All  this  was  not  conlined  to  the  ctmnty. 
fhe  metropolitan  ))apers  had  mentioned  it 
and  discussed  it,  ai.il  the  '^  Coiitiniiid  IHmp- 
penrance  of  Captain  Diidleiyh"  was  for  a  long 
time  the  standing  heading  of  many  para- 
gra])hs. 

Hut  during  all  this  time  Edith  remained 
at  the  inn  in  comphito  seclusion,  recovering 
slowly  but  surely.  In  that  seclusion  she  was 
utterly  ignorant  of  the  excitement  which 
she  had  caused,  and,  iiuleed,  was  not  aware 
that  she  was  talked  of  at  all.  The  papers 
were  all  kindly  kept  out  of  her  sight,  and 
as  she  had  never  been  accustomed  to  read 
them,  she  never  thought  of  asking  for  them. 

But  the  public  fueling  had  at  last  reached 
tli.at  point  at  which  it  demaiuled,  with  re- 
sistless voice,  an  inquiry  after  the  missing 
mau. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE  OLD  WKLL. 

PlTULlC  feeling  had  grown  so  strong  that 
it  could  no  longer  be  disregarded,  anil  the 
authririties  had  to  take  up  the  case.  It  was 
enforced  upon  their  attention  in  many  ways. 
The  whole  cotnity  urged  it  upon  tlicin,  and 
journals  of  nott!  in  <litferent  i)arts  of  the 
kingdom  denounced  their  lethargy.  Under 
tlicrtc  einumstauces  they  were  compelled  to 
take  some  action. 

Wiggins  had  foreseen  this,  and  to  guard 
against  this  necefsity  he  had  himself  doiu) 
all  in  his  pow  to  search  after  the  missing 
man.  He  had  put  the  case  in  the  hands  of 
detectives,  who  had  carried  on  an  investi- 
gation in  all  quarters,  and  in  every  possible 
way;  but  to  no  purpose,  and  with  no  result. 
When  at  length  the  authorities  came,  he  in- 
formed them  of  his  search  ami  its  failure, 
but  fissured  them  that  he  still  belitned  that 
Captain  Dudleigh  was  alive.  His  theory 
was  that,  being  heavily  in  debt, he  had  taken 


116 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


tbis  mode  of  eluding  his  creditors,  and  after 
causing  it  to  be  believed  that  ho  was  dead, 
he  had  ([uietlj'  disappeared,  and  was  now  en- 
joying himself  somewhere  on  the  Continent. 
No  one  else,  however,  shared  this  opinion, 
and  those  who  came  to  the  search  had  no 
doubt  tliat  the  missing  man  liad  been  mur- 
dered. So  they  instituted  a  regular  search 
over  the  whole  estate.  They  began  with  the 
Hall, and  went  throughevery  partof  it.  Then 
they  turned  their  attention  to  the  grounds. 
These  were  extensive,  and  it  seemed  prob- 
able that  son>ewhero  among  the  groves  or 
swamps  the  remains  might  be  found.  They 
searched  the  chapel  and  the  vaults.  They 
dragged  the  pond  in  front  of  the  house.  In 
all  this  Wiggins  lent  his  active  assistance 
toward  furthering  the  ends  of  justice,  but 
at  the  same  time  retained  the  lirmest  convic- 
tion that  it  was  a  trick  of  Dudleigh's,  and 
that  he  was  now  in  foreign  parts. 

At  length  some  of  those  who  had  been 
going  the  rounds  of  the  wall  returned  to 
the  house,  carrying  something,  the  sight  of 
which  produced  a  profound  excitement.  It 
was  tlie  hook  f>ud  rope  by  which  Edith  had 
sought  to  escape.  They  found  it  haugniff 
upon  the  wall,  and  every  one  recognized  at 
a  glance  the  intention  of  this  rope-ladder. 
But  the  thing  that  produced  the  strongest 
exciten\ent  was  something  else.  They  had 
fouiul  it  lying  among  the  grass  at  the  foot  of 
the  ladder,  having  evidently  been  dropped  by 
some  fugitive  as  an  inipediment,  or  thrown 
away  as  useless.  It  was  a  dagger,  which, 
from  being  so  long  exposed  to  the  weather, 
was  covered  with  rust,  but  was  still  sharp 
and  deadly. 

This  dagger  secerned  at  once  to  confirm  the 
general  impression.  It  showed  that  one  of 
the  fugitives  of  tliat  night — the  one  who  had 
escaped — hud  been  armed  with  a  deadly 
wea[>on.  Every  one  knew  who  the  one  was 
who  had  escaped.  Every  one  had  already 
suspected  her.  Her  wild  Uiglit,  her  terrible 
agitation,  her  long  illness  —  all  had  been 
known.  What  else  could  cause  such  a  state 
of  tilings  but  the  dread  reiuembraiice  of 
some  dark  crime  f  And  now  this  daggf^r  lay 
before  tliem,  the  silent  proof  of  tho  guilt  of 
her  who  liad  lt!ft  it  there. 

Upon  Wiggins  the  ettect  was  erushing. 
His  tongue  was  jiaralyzed.  He  kept  aloof 
after  that,  with  despair  on  his  face,  and  sur- 
veyed tlie  proceedings  at  a  distaiuie.  Not 
so  Jlrs.  Dunbar.  All  this  time  she  had  been 
feverish  and  agitated,  sometimes  fidlowiiig 
tlm  ollieers,  at  other  times  retiring.  Upon 
lierthe  sight  of  tiiat  dagger  acted  like  »(une- 
thing  that  coiiflrme<l  the  worst  of  her  fears, 
and  she  burst  forth  into  wild  wails  and  lam- 
entations. She  then  urged  the  otHcers  to 
rene\  eil  search,  and  finally  told  them  all 
about  her  own  discovery  of  the  empty  rooms 
on  that  ev(>ntfiil  morning,  and  the  singular 
behavior  of  the  dog. 


The  mention  of  this  created  new  excite- 
ment, and  they  at  once  asked  where  the  dog 
now  was. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  did  not  know.  The  dog  had 
disappeared  most  mysteriously,  and  they  had 
seen  nothing  of  him  for  a  long  time. 

They  then  asked  to  be  taken  to  the  jdaco 
where  the  dog  Lad  stationed  himself.  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  still  wild  with  excitement,  led  tho 
way  there.  Arriving  at  the  spot,  they  exam- 
ined it  narrowly,  but  found  nothing.  It  was 
grass,  which  had  not  been  touched  for  yciirs. 
No  body  lay  buried  beneath  that  old  turf,  as 
was  plainly  evident.  They  then  went  to  the 
out-houses,  toward  which  Mrs.  Dunbar  told 
them  the  dog  had  kept  his  face  turned  for 
some  time  when  she  had  first  seen  him;  but 
here  they  found  nothing  whatever. 

It  was  now  late,  and  they  began  to  thhik 
of  retiring,  when  suddenly  one  of  the  party, 
who  had  been  walking  in  the  rear  of  the  sta- 
bles, gave  a  call  which  drew  them  all  in  that 
direction.  Upon  reaching  him  they  found 
him  standing  at  tho  edge  of  a  nit,  which 
looked  like  an  old  well.  Over  this  there 
was  still  tho  frame  of  what  had  been  tho 
well-house,  and  the  well  itself  was  very  deep. 
Kneeling,  they  all  peered  into  the  b'ack  dejiths 
beneath  them,  but  discovered  nothing,  One 
of  them  dropped  a  stone,  and  the  so'.ind  far 
below  showed  that  the  bottom  lay  at  leasL 
sixty  or  eighty  feet  from  the  surface. 

"  How  long  since  this  well  has  been  used  !" 
asked  the  sheriff. 

"  Many  years,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar. 

"  Did  you  examine  it  ?" 

"  We  never  thought  of  doing  so." 

"Well,  we  may  as  well  try  it.  Can  wo 
have  a  rope  ?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mrs.  Dunbar,  who  at 
once  went  to  the  house,  and  soon  returned 
with  Hugo,  who  carried  a  long  stout  rope. 

Now  it  remained  to  explore  the  well,  and 
to  do  this  it  would  bo  necessary  for  some 
one  to  descend.  But  no  ditliculty  was  found 
in  this.  By  this  time  all  had  been  stimu- 
lated to  the  highest  degree  by  the  excite- 
ment of  the  search,  and  there  was  something 
in  the  loolc  of  the  well  which  made  it  seem 
like  tho  very  place  for  tlit!  hurried  disposal 
of  a  body.  Here,  then,  they  were  all  con- 
vinced, if  any  where,  they  would  be  sure  to 
come  upon  that  which  tliey  sought.  Ac- 
cordingly several  volunte(U'ed  to  go  down; 
but  the  sheriff  chose  fnmi  among  them  the 
one  who  seemed  fittest  for  tliat  purpose,  and 
to  t\w  others  was  allotted  the  task  of  low- 
ering him.  Some  furtlier  time  was  taken 
up  in  making  the  neci;ssary  preparations  for 
this;  but  at  length  these  were  all  completed, 
and  the  man  who  was  to  go  down,  after  bind- 
ing one  end  of  the  rope  about  liis  cliest  and 
giving  the  otluT  end  to  his  companions, 
prepared  to  descend. 

The  well  was  not  very  wide,  and  was  lined 
around  its  sides  with  rough  stones.     In  the 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


117 


interstices  between  these  he  inserted  his 
leet  and  hands,  and  thus  ho  let  himself  down, 
descendiny  gradually. 

The  otliers  knelt  around  the  montli  of  the 
well,  holding  the  rope,  and  letting  it  pass 
througli  tlieir  hands  as  tlieir  conipaniou  de- 
scended, peering  silently  into  tlie  dark  with 
eager  eyes,  and  listening  breathlessly  to  tlie 
dull  sounds  made  by  the  man  below  as  he 
descended  further  and  furtlier. 

At  last  all  was  still.  Frcmi  below  there 
came  no  sound.  Ho  had  reached  the  bot- 
tom. More  anxiously  than  ever  they  tried 
to  pierce  through  tlu!  gloom,  but  that  gloom 
was  imj)enetrable.  Their  comi)auion  delayed 
long.    They  began  to  feel  uneasy. 

At  length  they  heard  sounds,  and  knew 
that  he  was  iiscending.  Witli  what  intel- 
ligence f  What  had  he  found  in  that  awful 
abyss?  T"'s  was  the  (luestion  which  was 
suggested  lo  every  heart,  but  a  ([ucstion 
which  no  one  could  answer.  They  lent 
th(!ir  assistance,  and  pulled  at  the  rope  to 
help  their  comitaniou.  Nearer  and  nearer 
he  came,  and  still  nearer,  until  at  last  be 
was  within  reai'li.  A  few  moments  more  and 
he  emerged  from  the  mouth  of  the  well,  and 
falling  forward,  he  lay  for  a  moment  mo- 
tionless. 

They  all  rushed  to  his  .assistance,  but  he 
shook  them  off  and  rose  to  liis  feet. 

"  Did  you  liud  any  thing  ?" 

"  Yes,"  sai<l  the  man,  in  a  liollnw  voice. 

"What  ?"  cried  all,  in  breathless  susi)ense. 

"Y(Mi  sliall  see.  Hring  lights  here,  some- 
body. It's  getting  too  dark  for  this  busi- 
ness." 

Hugo  was  at  once  dispatched  to  the  Hall 
by  Mrs.  Dunbar  for  lights.  There  was  by 
this  time  every  necessity  fi>r  them.  Much 
time  had  heeu  taken  up  with  their  ]irei)aia- 
tions,  and  the  shadows  of  evening  had  al- 
ready gathered  about  them.  While  Hugo 
was  gone  they  all  (luestioned  their  compan- 
ion, but  he  refused  (o  say  any  thing. 

•'Don't  ask  nu'."  he  rejilied.  "  Wait  and 
Bee  for  yourselves." 

At  this  answer  there  was  but  one  convic- 
tion in  the  minds  of  all,  which  was  that  the 
object  of  tlieir  search  had  been  I'ound.  Ibit 
there  was  now  no  further  delay.  Hugo  so(Ui 
returned  with  a  lantern,  and  the  man  pie- 
pared  to  descend  once  more.  'I'lic  lantiTU 
lie  hung  alioiit  his  nt'ck,  and  taking  another 
piece  of  rope  with  him,  the  end  of  which 
was  left  with  those  above,  he  again  went 
down.  This  time  he  was  gone  longer  than 
bcfort'.  'J'liose  al>ove  ])eciiug  thlough  the 
gloom  cimld  see  a  faint  light  tar  below, 
and  the  shixlowv  outline  of  their  conipaiii(ui. 

At  length  he  liegitn  to  ascend,  and  in  due 
time  reached  the  lop. 

"There,"  said  he;  "you  may  ])nll  on 
that  line.  I  have  fastened  it  so  that  if  "11 
hohl." 

t?aying  this.he  flung  liimself  exhausted  on 


the  grass,  and  nnsliiag  tho  lantern  and  un- 
bound the  rope. 

The  others  pulled.  There  was  a  heavy 
weight  at  the  end  of  the  rope.  They  could 
all  conjecture  well  what  that  dead-weight 
might  be.  But  the  fierce  curiosity  that  now 
animated  them  stimulatc'd  them  to  put  forth 
all  their  strength  in  a  series  of  vigorous  imlls. 
Nearer  and  nearer  came  that  weight  to  tho 
top.  At  last  it  luiiig  Just  beneath  them. 
Haifa  dozen  hands  were  stretched  out,  and 
in  an  instant  it  was  jerked  out  and  lay  upon 
th(^  grass. 

The  sheriff  seized  the  lantern  and  held  it 
up.  The  scene  was  one  of  horror.  All  around 
was  tilt!  gloom  of  night,  the  shadowy  outline 
of  trees  and  of  the  out-houses.  A  flickering 
light  revealed  a  grtui])  of  men  surrounding 
some  object  on  the  grass,  upon  which  they 
gazed  in  silent  awe. 

It  was  a  shapeless,  sodden  mass,  but  tho 
human  outline  waspreserved,andthe  clothes 
were  there.  re(!ognizable.  It  was  a  grisly,  a 
]ii(l(M)Us  sight,  and  it  lield  them  all  spell- 
bound. 

Hut  suddenly  the  silence  was  broken.  A 
wild  shriek  burst  forth  from  Mrs.  Dunbar, 
who  the  next  instant  fell  forward  ujion  the 
hideous  oliject.  Hugo  seized  her  and  raised 
Iier  up.     She  was  S(;nseless. 

"What  is  this?''  cried  the  stern  voice  of 
Wiggins,  who  at  that  moment  had  come  to 
the  place. 

"  Mrs.  Dunbar  has  fainted,"  said  the  sher- 
\ff;  and  then  he  pointed  silently  to  the  Thing 
that  lay  in  the  midst  of  the  circle  of  sjiee- 
tators. 

Wiggins  looked  at  it,  and  seemed  turned 
to  stone.  Then  a  shudder  passed  through 
him.     Then  he  fuiiied  away. 

As  111'  walked  he  staggered  like  one  who 
has  received  some  terrible  blow, and  stagger- 
ing on  in  this  way,  he  passed  out  of  sight 
into  the  gloom.  After  this  Mrs.  Dunbar  was 
carried  into  the  house  by  Hugo. 

There  was  silence  for  a  long  time. 

"The  head  is  gone!"  said  the  sherifl'  at 
length,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  another;  "it's  been  long  iu 
the  water." 

"  Water  couldn't  do  it,"  said  the  sheritT; 
"  it  was  gone  before  it  wiiut  into  the  wattu'." 

•What  was  that  for?" 

"  To  ))revciit  ideiililication,"  said  the  sher- 
ifl",  ill  a  signilicaiit  t(uie. 

'i'lie  remains  were  in  due  time  conveyed 
to  an  ait)U'opriate  jilace,  together  with  the 
rope  and  the  dagger.  On  the  foihtwing  day 
a  search  was  made  for  the  missing  head, 
'I'lie  v.ell  was  pumped  dry.  a  task  in  which 
there  was  little  dilliciilty,  as  there  was  little 
more  than  two  feet  of  wafer  in  if,  but  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  was  found.  Then  they 
dragged  the  )iond,  but  without  result.  The 
sciirch  was  also  continued  elsewhere,  but  it 
wa«  equally  unHiiccessful, 


118 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


It  was  theu  concluded  that  tlio  murderer 
bad  removed  the  head  of  his  victim  to  pre- 
vent idciitificatiou,  aud  had  huried  it  some- 
where, but  that  the  traces  of  burial  had 
been  o))literated  by  the  lapse  of  tinu).  The 
only  wonder  was  tliat  the  clothes  shouhl 
have  beeu  allowed  to  remain  by  (me  who 
had  )>eeu  so  much  on  his  guard  as  to  do- 
capitato  his  victim. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THK  COUONKK'S  INtJUEST. 

TnK  remains  were  deposited  in  a  proper 
place,  aiul  a  coroner's  inquest  was  held  at 
once,  at  whicli  the  usual  examination  of 
witnesses  was  conducttMl. 

Wiggins  was  examined  first.  Ho  showed 
great  constraint.  He  had  not  much  to  say, 
however,  about  tlio  disappearance  of  Captain 
Drdleigh,  for  ho  had  been  absent  at  tliat 
t'me,  and  lie  could  only  state  what  took 
l.lace  after  his  return.  Hut  in  the  course  of 
these  inciuiries  much  was  extorted  from  liim 
relative  to  Editli's  position  at  Dalton  Hall, 
her  marriage,  and  the  terms  on  which  she 
had  bet^n  living  with  her  husband.  His 
answers  wen^  given  with  extreme  hesitation 
and  marked  reluctance,  and  it  was  only  by 
the  utmost  persistence  that  they  were  wrr.ug 
from  hiu). 

The  porter  was  examined,  and  hi  the 
course  of  the  in{|uiry  tliat  scene  at  thii  gates 
when  Edith  tried  to  escape  was  rev.'aled. 

Hugo  was  examined.  It  wr.s  foinid  out 
that  he  had  overheard  the  conversation  be- 
tween Edith  and  Captain  Diidleigh  at  their 
hwt  interview.  Hugo's  answers  were  given 
with  as  nnich  reluctance  as  those  of  Wig- 
gins, but  lit*  was  not  able  to  evade  the  (pu's- 
tions,  and  all  that  lie  knew  was  drawn  from 
him.  Ihit  Hugo's  reineiubraiK'o  of  words 
was  not  very  accurate,  and  he  could  not  give 
any  detailed  report  of  the  conversation  whicli 
he  had  overheard.  Several  things,  how- 
ever, hail  beeu  impressed  njion  his  memory. 
One  was  the  occasion  when  Edith  drew  a 
dagger  upon  Captain  Dudleigh.  and  left  the 
room  with  it  in  her  hand ;  another  was  when, 
in  her  last  interview  with  him,  she  menaced 
his  life,  and  threatened  to  have  his  "  Iteuii's 
blood."  So  it  was  that  Hugo  had  understood 
Edith's  words. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  was  examined,  and  gave  her 
testimony  with  less  hesitation.  She  was 
deathly  jiale,  and  wciik  and  miserable.  She 
sjiokc  with  dirticnlty,  but  was  eager  to  bear 
witness  to  the  noble  <'liaraeter  of  Captain 
Dudleigh.  She  certainly  showed  nothing 
like  hate  toward  Edith,  but  at  the  same  lime 
showed  no  hesitation  to  tell  all  about  her. 
She  told  about  ('aplain  Dudleigh's  first  visits, 
and  about  the  visits  of  his  friend,  who  Inul 
nssumed  his  nani(>,  or  had  the  sanio  name. 


She  told  how  Edith  had  been  warned,  and 
how  she  scorned  the  warning.  From  her 
was  elicited  the  story  of  Edith's  return  after 
her  marriage,  her  illness,  recovery,  and  des- 
perate moods,  in  which  she  seemed  frans- 
forined,  as  Mrs.  Dunbar  expressed  it,  to  a 
"fury."  The  account  of  her  disovery  of 
the  Hight  of  Edith  and  the  captain  was 
given  with  much  emotion,  but  with  simple 
truth. 

Mr.  Muun  was  also  examined  about  the 
marriage.  He  had  not  yet  recovered  from 
the  agitation  into  which  he  had  been  thrown 
during  his  interview  with  Wiggins,  but 
seemed  in  a  state  of  chronic  fright. 

After  thest?  witnesses  one  other  yet  renmin- 
ed.  It  was  one  whose  coiniection  with  these 
events  was  the  closest  of  all — one  upon 
wliom  that  Jury  already  looked  as  guilty  of 
a  terrible  crime — as  the  one  who  had  indict- 
ed with  her  own  hand  that  death  whose 
cause  they  were  investigating. 

There  was  no  doubt  now  in  v  ny  mind.  Tlie 
remains  had  beeu  identified  by  all  the  wit- 
nesses. The  liead  had  been  removed,  and 
had  not  been  found,  but  the  clothes  Mere 
known  to  all.  Uy  these  they  judged  the  re- 
mains to  be  the  body  of  Captain  Dudlcijr'i. 
Wiggins  alone  hesitated — but  it  was  only 
hesitation  ;  it  was  not  denial. 

When  Edith  was  snunnoned  before  the 
coroner's  jury,  it  was  the  v<'ry  first  intclli- 
'  gence  that  shi*  had  received  of  an  event  in 
I  which  slie  was  so  deeply  concerned.  The 
'  landlady  had  heard  all  about  the  search  and 
its  results  ;  but  true  to  her  determination  to 
span!  Edith  all  trouble,  she  had  not  allowed 
any  news  of  these  proceedings  to  be  com- 
municated to  her.  When  the  ofticial  ap- 
])eared  with  his  abrupt  summons  to  attend, 
the  shock  was  terrible,  but  there  was  noth- 
ing left  except  submission.  A  few  brief 
answers  to  her  hurried  and  agitated  (ines- 
tions  put  her  in  possession  of  the  chief  facts 
of  the  case.  On  her  way  to  the  place  she 
said  not  a  word.  The  landlady  went  with 
her  to  take  care  of  her,  but  Edith  did  not 
take  any  notice  of  her. 

As  she  entered  the  room  where  the  exam- 
ination was  going  on,  the  scene  that  pre- 
sented itself  was  one  which  might  well  have 
appalled  a  stouter  heart  than  that  of  Edith, 
and  which,  coming  as  it  di<l  after  the  shock 
of  this  sudden  surprise,  and  in  the  train  of 
all  that  she  Iiad  already  sutt'ered,  gave  to 
her  a  sharp  pang  of  intoleialde  anguish, 
and  filled  her  soul  with  horror  unspeak- 
able. 

The  rope-ladder  lay  there  with  its  hocdi, 
with  which  she  had  etfc<'ted  her  escape,  and 
besid(<  these  was  the  dagger  which  more 
than  once  she  had  interposed  between  her- 
self aud  her  tierce  aggressor;  but  il  was  not 
these  that  she  saw  ;  something  else  was 
then*  which  ti\ed  and  enchaiiuMl  her  gaze, 
which  held  her  with  u  terrible  faseiuutiou. 


: 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


119 


'WITH    A   LOUD   CRY,  SHK    HALF   TUKNKI). 


A  slieot  was  thrown  over  it,  but  tlio  outlines 
of  tliiit  which  hiy  binoiith  indicattMl  a  hu- 
man form,  and  tho  iutorniation  wliich  Etlith 
had  ah-cady  recoived  nuide  her  wi-11  aware 
whose  that  form  was  supposed  to  be.  Hut  she 
said  nothiu>; ;  she  stood  ri<;id,  horror-strick- 
en, overwhi'hiu'd,  and  hjokcd  at  it  witii  star- 
ing eyes  and  white  lips. 

The  coroner  made  some  remarks,  consist- 
ing of  the  usual  formulas,  siimctliinj;  like 
an  apology  for  tlit;  examination,  a  iiiiit  that 
it  might  possibly  atVcct  herself,  and  a  warn- 
ing that  she  should  be  very  careful  not  to 
way  any  thing  that  might  inculpate  herself. 

To  all  this  ImUiIi  ))aid  no  attention.  .Sin- 
did  not  appear  to  have  heard  it.  .She  stood, 
ns  th««  coroutT  spoke,  in  the  sauu*  attitude  as 
before,  with  her  «'ycs  set  in  the  sanu'  rigid 
Stare.  As  the  coroiu-r  ceased,  he  stepped 
forward  and  drew  away  the  sheet. 

There  it  lay  at  last  —unveiled,  revealed  to 
her  eyes  -the  abhorrent  Thing,  whose  faint 
(Mitliut*  had  chilled  her  very  soul,  its  aspect 
liideous,  frightful,  unendurable!  As  the 
sheet  fell  away,  anil  all  was  revealed  before 
her,  she  could  restrain  herself  no  hmger  ;  the 


strain  was  too  great ;  with  a  loud  cry,  she  half 
turned  and  tried  to  rini.  The  next  instant 
the  landlady  caught  her  as  sho  was  fulling 
senseless  to  the  floor. 

Tho  examination  of  Mrs.  Dmlleigh  was 
postponed.  On  the  whole,  however,  it  was 
afterward  <'tinsidered  unuccessai'y.  Enough 
had  been  gathered  from  the  other  witnesses  to 
enablt^  the  jury  to  come  to  a  conclusion.  It 
was  felt,  also,  that  Mis.  Diidlcigli  ouylit  to 
have  a  chance;  though  they  believed  her 
guilty,  they  f<'lt  sorry  tor  her,  autl  diil  m)t 
wish  her  to  criminally  herself  by  any  ranli 
words.  The  result  was  that  they  broiiglit 
in  a  verdict  of  murder  against  Mrs.  l^con 
IJudlei^h. 


CILMTER  XL. 

A  8TKANUE  t'ONFK.SSION'. 

Till':  news  of  Edith's  arrest  spread  like 
wild-fire,  and  the  event  becann>  soon  the  sub- 
ject of  universal  conversation.  liiimors  of 
all  sorts  arose,  ii>4  is  mitural  under  such  cir- 
enmstuuces,  most  of  which  were  udver.so  to 


120 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


the  accused.  People  remembered  against 
the  daughter  the  crimes  of  the  father.  It 
was  bad  Mood,  they  said,  wliich  she  had  in- 
herited ;  it  was  au  evil  race  to  which  she 
heloiigcd,  and  the  murderous  tendency  was 
hereditary. 

The  examination  at  the  inquest  had  made 
known  the  general  facts  of  her  story,  out 
of  wliich  i>ul»lic  gossip  constructed  another 
story  to  suit  itself. 

Mrs.  Dudleigb  had  been  found  trouble- 
some and  dangerous  all  along,  so  much  so 
that  it  became  necessary  to  keep  her  within 
llic  grounds.  When  Captain  Dudleigb  was 
paying  attentions  to  her,  she  treated  him 
with  perfect  brutalitj^.  On  one  occasion  she 
struck  him  with  her  whij),  and  tried  to  run 
away.  Ca]>taiii  Dudleigb  had  sent  his  friend, 
or  relative.  Lieutenant  Dudleigb,  to  bring 
about  .a  reconciliation.  This  was  so  well 
nuiuaged  that  the  two  resumed  their  fornu'r 
relations,  and  she  even  cousent(Hl  to  make  a 
runaway  niateb  with  him.  This,  however, 
was  not  out  of  love  so  much  as  to  spite  her 
guardian. 

After  this  marriage  she  took  a  violent  dis- 
like to  her  husband,  and  pretended  to  be  ill, 
or  ])erha]is  suflercMl  real  illness,  the  natural 
result  of  Ji(!r  fierce,  unbridled  temjier.  Her 
husband  found  it  impossible  to  live  with 
her.  The  few  interviews  which  they  had 
were  very  stormy.  Over  and  over  again  she 
threatened  his  life.  At  length  she  beguiled 
him  into  the  park  on  some  unknown  pretext, 
and  there,  with  that  dagger  which  she  had 
so  often  llourished  in  his  face,  she  shi'd  that 
very  "licuii'n  hUiinV  whii'h  she  had  threaten- 
ed to  take.  Tlio  murder  was  evidently  a 
preconcerted  act.  She  must  have  done  it 
deliberately,  for  she  had  preiJared  \\w  means 
of  secret  escape.  .She  deiilterately  tried  to 
conceal  her  act,  and  after  removing  his  head, 
and  burying  it,  she  had  thrown  the  body 
into  th(!  old  well.  Ibit  ^'mitrdir  uill  ok/,"' 
etc.,  etc. ;  and  with  this  and  other  Hiniilar 
maxims  Kdith's  eoudenmatiou  was  settled 
by  the  ]>ulilic  mind. 

Thus  Edith  was  in  ju'ison,  held  there  un- 
der a  terri)»le  charge,  for  which  there  was 
proof  that  was  a]>palliiig  in  its  character. 
The  body  found  and  iilentitied  seemed  to 
plead  against  her;  eirciniistanees  inculpated 
her;  motives  were  assigned  to  her  sullieient- 
ly  strong  to  cause  the  act ;  her  own  words 
and  acts  all  tended  to  confirm  her  guilt. 

After  all,  however,  this  last  blow  was  not 
so  crushing  a  one  as  som(>  others  which  she 
had  received  in  tlie  course  of  hei'  life.  'i'lie 
most  ferribli^  moment  perhaps  had  lieen  that 
one  when  she  wasfaken  and  <'onl'n)nted  with 
till'  horril)lt>  remains.  After  that  shock  had 
subsided  she  rallied  somewhat  ;  and  when 
her  arrest  took  jdace  she.  was  not  unprepared. 

If  flii^  shock  of  the  ani'st  had  thus  lieen 
less  severe  than  migiit  be  supi)oscd,  so  also 
was  she  less  att'ected  by  her  imprisonment 


than  another  person  wonld  have  been  in  snch 
a  situation.  The  reason  of  this  is  evident. 
She  had  endured  so  much  that  this  seemed 
an  inferior  aflliction.  The  .anguish  which 
she  had  known  could  not  be  increased  by 
this.  At  Dalton  Hall  she  had  become  habit- 
uated to  imprisonment,  and  of  a  far  more 
galling  kind  to  her  than  this.  She  had  been 
in  th(!  power  of  a  tyrant,  at  his  mercy,  and 
shut  out  from  all  means  of  communicating 
with  the  world  at  large.  Her  soul  had  per- 
petually fretted  and  cliafcd  against  the  bar- 
riers by  which  she  was  confined,  and  the 
struggle  within  herself  was  incessant.  Aft- 
erward there  had  been  the  worse  infliction 
of  that  mock  marriage,  and  the  unspeakable 
dread  of  a  new  tyrant  who  called  himself 
her  husband.  No  prison  could  equal  the 
horrors  which  she  had  known  at  Dalton 
Hall.  Hero  in  the  jail  her  situation  was  at 
least  known.  From  Wiggins  she  was  saved ; 
from  her  false  husband  rescued  forever.  She 
was  now  not  in  the  power  of  a  private  ty- 
rant, exercising  his  usurped  authority  over 
her  from  his  own  desire,  and  with  his  will 
as  his  only  law;  but  she  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  nation,  and  under  the  power  of  the 
national  law.  So,  after  all,  she  knew  less 
grief  in  that  prison  cell  than  in  the  more 
luxurious  abode  of  Dalton  Hall,  less  sorrow, 
less  desiiair.  Her  mood  was  a  calm  and  al- 
most apathetic  one,  for  the  great  griefs  whi'"]i 
she  had  already  endured  had  made  her  al- 
most indifl'erent  to  any  thing  that  life  might 
yet  have  to  ofl'er. 

Two  days  after  her  arrest  word  was 
brought  to  Edith  that  a  lady  wished  to  see 
her.  Full  of  wonder  who  it  could  be,  and 
in  <loubt  whether  it  could  be  Miss  I'lymp- 
ton,  or  only  Mrs.  Dnnb.ar,  Edith  eagerly  di- 
rected that  the  visitor  should  be  admitted, 

Tlii'reniion  a  lady  dressed  in  black  entered 
till!  chamlier.  A  heavy  black  veil  was  over 
her  face,  which  she  raised  as  she  entered, 
and  stood  liefore  Edith  with  downcast  eyes. 

There  was  somethiiig  in  that  face  which 
seemed  strangely  familiar  to  Edith,  and  yet 
she  found  herself  (|uitt^  unable  to  think  who 
the  lady  could  be.  Sht^  thought  over  all  the 
faces  that  she  had  known  in  her  school  days. 
Slic  thought  over  the  faces  at  Dalton  Hall. 
.Suddenly,  as  the  lady  raised  her  eyes,  there 
was  an  additional  revelation  in  them  which 
at  (Mice  told  Edith  all. 

Sh(>  started  back  in  amazement. 

"  Lieutenant  Dudleigb  !''  she  eried. 

The  lady  bowed  her  head,  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice, 

"  Fortesciie  is  my  real  nanit>." 

A  snsiiieion  of  this  sort  iiad  once  flashed 
across  Eililh's  mind.  It  was  during  tlit^  al- 
tercation at  the  Dalton  chapel.  Still,  as  this 
suspicion  was  thus  conllrmed,  her  surprise 
was  extreme,  anil  she  naid  not  a  word,  but 
looked  steadily  at  her.  And  in  the  midst 
of  other  thoughts  and  feelings  she  could  not 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


121 


'  liLT    KVKN    NOW    I    WOULD    111-;    WILLINCi    TO    DIE    FOK    HIM. 


help  seoinp  that  great  changes  had  come 
over  Miss  Fortescne,  as  Hhe  culled  herself, 
in  addition  to  those  which  were  consequent 
upon  her  resunijition  of  feminine  attiro.  She 
was  pale  and  tliin,  and  looked  ten  years 
older  than  she  used  to  look.  Evidently 
she  liad  nn<lergone  great  suffering.  Then^ 
were  marks  of  deep  grii^f  on  her  face.  Much 
Edith  marveled  to  see  that  one  who  had 
acted  so  basely  was  capable  of  suffering  such 
grief.  Siie  could  not  help  being  reminded 
of  that  ex]iression  which  she  iiad  se<ui  on 
this  same  face  when  they  were  arranging 
that  false  marriage;  but  now  that  deep  re- 
morse which  then  had  ajipi-ared  seemed 
stamped  permanently  there,  together  witli 
a  profound  dejection  that  was  like  desjiair. 
All  this  was  not  without  its  etfect  on  Kdith. 
It  disarmed  her  natural  indignation,  and 
oven  excited  pity. 

"Miss  Dalt-iu,"  said  the  visitor,  in  a  voice 
that  was  (piite  different  from  the  one  which 
she  renuMul>ered — a  voie«^  tliat  was  evidently 
her  natural  one,  while  that  otlier  must  have 
been  assumed  — "  Miss  Dalton.  I  have  come  to 
try  to  <h>  something,  if  ])ossil>Ie,  toward  mak- 
ing amends  for — for  a  frightful  injury.  I 
know  well  that  amends  can  never  be  nuide  ; 
but  at  least  I  can  do  a  little.  Will  you  listen 
to  me  for  a  fi'w  moments,  not  with  regard 
to  me,  but  solely  for  your  own  sake  ?'' 

Edith  said  nothing,  but  bowed  her  head 
slightly.  She  did  not  yet  know  how  far 
this  betrayer  might  be  sincere,  and  wished 
to  hear  anil  judges  for  herself. 


"  Will  yon  let  me,  first  of  all,  make  a  ron- 
fession  to  you  of  my  great  sin  ?"  she  con- 
tinued, slowly  and  painfully.  "  Von  will  nn- 
derstaiul  better  your  own  present  situation. 
I  assure  you  it  will  be  a  help  to  you  toward 
frcfMug  ycMirself.  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe 
— 1  oidy  ask  yon  to  listen." 

Edith  again  bowed. 

"I  will  tell  you  all,  then.  I  was  an  act- 
ress in  Lcmdon  ;  my  imnw  was  Forteseuo. 
I  was  a  celebrity  .at  Coveut  Garden.  It  was 
there  that  I  first  met  Ca))fain  Diidleigh. 
I  need  say  no  more  about  him  than  this  :  I 
loved  him  passionately,  with  a  frenzy  and  a 
devotion  that  yon  can  not  nnilerstaiul,  ami 
my  fate  is  this — that  I  love  him  yet.  I 
know  that  he  is  a  coward  and  a  villain  and 
a  traitor,  but  even  now  I  would  be  willing 
to  die  for  him." 

The  voice  was  different — how  different ! — 
and  the  tone  and  manner  still  more  so.  The 
careless  '•  Little  Dudleigh"  ha<l  cbanged  into 
a  being  of  )iassiou  and  ardor  and  tiri'.  F.dith 
tried  to  preserve  an  iuercdui.  us  sljite  of 
iniiul,  but  in  vain.  Slie  could  not  help  liTl- 
ing  that  there  was  no  a-'tiug  here.  This  at 
least  was  real.  This  devoted  love  could  not 
be  feigiu'd. 

"  Hi-  swore  he  loved  nie,"  cnntimn-d  Mis.s 
Fortescu(>.  "  He  asked  nu«  to  be  his  wife. 
We  were  married." 

"  Married  !"  cried  Edith,  in  a  tone  of  pro- 
foundest  agitation. 

'•  Yes,"  said  Miss  Fm-teseue,  solemnly,  "wo 
were  inurried.     Hut  listen.     I  believed  f  hut 


'li' 


132 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


the  marriage  was  real.  He  told  some  story 
about  his  friends  being  unwilling — about  his 
father,  who,  lie  said,  would  disown  him  if  ho 
found  it  out.  He  urged  a  private  marriage, 
without  any  public  announcement.  Ho  knew 
a  young  clergyman,  ho  said,  who  wcmld  do 
him  that  favor.  For  my  part  I  had  not  the 
slightest  objection.  I  loved  him  too  well  to 
care  about  a  formal  wedding.  So  we  were 
married  in  his  rooms,  with  a  friend  of  his  for 
witness. 

"  Ho  set  np  a  modest  little  house,  where 
we  lived  for  about  a  year.  At  first  my  life 
was  one  of  perfect  happiness,  but  gradually 
I  saw  ill  change  coming  over  him.  He  was 
terribly  in  debt,  and  was  afraid  of  utter 
ruin.  From  hints  tiiat  dropped  from  him,  I 
began  to  suspect  that  he  meditated  some 
sort  of  treachery  toward  me.  Tlien,  for  the 
first  time,  I  was  alarmed  at  the  privacy  of 
our  marriage.  Still,  I  was  afraid  to  say  any 
thing  to  him,  for  fear  that  it  might  hasten  any 
treacliery  toward  me  which  he  might  med- 
itate. I  loved  him  as  dearly  as  ever,  but  I 
found  ont  that  he  was  base  and  unprin- 
cipled, and  felt  that  he  was  capable  of  any 
thing.  I  had  to  content  myself  with  watch- 
ing him,  and  at  the  same  time  tried  to  bo  as 
cheerful  as  possible. 

"At  length  lie  heard  about  you,  and  came 
to  Dalton.  His  father  sent  him,  he  said.  I 
followed  him  here.  At  first  he  was  angry, 
but  I  persuaded  him  to  take  me  as  an  as- 
sistant. He  <lid  not  want  to  be  known  at 
the  Hall,  for  lie  wished  to  see  first  what 
could  be  done  with  Wiggins.  He  made  me 
diflgnise  myself  as  a  man,  and  so  I  called 
myself  Lieutenant  Dudleigh.  He  went  to 
Dalton  Hall,  and  discovenMl  that  tlie  porter 
was  some  old  criminal  wlio  had  done  his 
crime  on  the  Dudleigli  estates — poaching,  I 
think,  or  murder,  or  botli.  On  seeing  Wig- 
gins, lie  was  able  to  obtain  some  control 
over  liim — I  don't  know  what.  He  never 
w^ould  tell  me. 

"By  tliis  time  I  found  ont  what  I  had  all 
along  suspected — that  he  came  liere  for  your 
sake.  He  was  terribly  in  del)t.  A  dark 
abyss  lay  before  liim.  He  began  to  feel  me 
to  be  an  incuiiilirance.  He  liegan  to  wisli 
that  lie  wiis  a  free  man,  so  that  he  might 
many  you.  I  saw  all  this  with  a  grief  that 
I  can  not  tell. 

"  We  made  several  calls  on  you.  I  went 
as  liis  motlier,  Mrs.  Mowbray." 

*  Mrs.  Mowbray !  You ?"  exclaimed  Edith, 
in  wonder. 

'•  Did  I  act  my  part  well  T"  said  Miss  For- 
teseue,  mournfully.  "  It  was  an  easy  enough 
jiart.  I  lielieve  I  succeeded  in  making  my- 
self utterly  detestable.  Captain  Dudleigli 
was  l>itterly  vexed  at  my  manner.  He  want- 
ed nie  to  gain  your  conlidenee.  That,  how- 
ever, I  eoiiUl  not  yi't  bring  myself  to  do.  His 
own  intercourse  witli  you  was  even  worse. 
Your  attempt  to  escape  was  a  terrible  blow 


to  his  hopes.  Yet  ho  dared  not  let  yon  es- 
cape. That  would  have  destroyed  his  plans 
utterly.  You  would  have  gone  to  your 
friends — to  Miss  Plynipton — and  you  would 
have  found  out  things  about  him  which 
would  have  made  his  projects  with  refer- 
ence to  you  out  of  the  question." 

"Miss  Plynipton!"  cried  Edith.  "How 
could  I  have  gone  to  herf     Slie  is  away." 

"  That  was  one  of  my  lies,"  said  Miss  For- 
tescue.  "  Unfortunately,  she  is  really  ill,  but 
she  is  still  in  the  country,  at  her  school.  I 
myself  went  there  to  tell  ht^r  about  you  only 
two  days  ago,  but  found  that  she  had  been 
ill  for  some  time,  and  could  not  see  any 
one." 

Edith  sighed  heavily.  For  an  instant 
hope  had  come,  and  then  it  had  died  out. 

"  He  made  me  go  again  to  see  you,  but 
with  what  result  you  know.  I  was  fairly 
driven  away  at  last.  This  made  him  terri- 
bly enrfiged  against  you  and  against  me, 
but  I  quieted  him  by  reminding  him  that  it 
was  only  his  own  fault.  It  brought  about 
a  change  in  his  plans,  however,  and  forced 
him  to  put  me  more  prominently  forward. 
I  Then  it  was  that  ho  devised  that  i)lan  ly 
which  I  was  to  go  and  win  your  contiden'.  i. 
I  can  not  speak  of  it;  you  know  it  all.  I 
wish  merely  to  show  you  what  the  pressure 
was  that  he  put  on  mo. 

"'Dear  wife,'  said  ho  to  me  one  day,  in 
his  most  atlectionate  tone — 'my  own  Lucy, 
you  know  all  about  my  aft'airs,  and  yon  know 
that  I  am  utterly  ruined.  If  I  can  not  do 
sometliing  to  save  myself,  I  see  no  otlier  re- 
source but  to  blow  my  biaiiis  out.  I  will 
do  it,  I  swear  I  will,  if  I  can  not  get  out  of 
tliese  scrapes.  My  fatlier  will  not  lit^lp  me. 
He  has  paid  all  my  debts  twice,  and  won't 
do  it  again.  Now  I  have  a  proposal  to  make. 
It's  my  only  hope.  You  can  help  me.  If 
you  love  me,  you  will  do  so.  Help  nie  in 
this,  and  then  you  will  bind  your  husliand 
to  you  by  a  tie  that  will  lie  stronger  than 
life.  If  you  will  not  d^  '  is  simple  thing, 
you  will  doom  me  to  death,  for  I  swear  I 
will  kill  myself,  or  at  least,  if  not  that,  I 
will  leave  you  forever,  and  go  to  some  place 
where  I  can  escape  my  creditors.' 

"  This  was  the  way  that  lie  fenced  his  plan 
upon  me.  You  know  what  it  was.  I  was 
to  see  you,  and  do — what  was  done. 

'"You  are  my  wife,'  said  he,  earnestly. 
'  I  can  not  marry  lier — I  don't  want  to — but 
I  do  want  to  get  money.  Let  iiie  have  the 
contnd  of  the  Dalton  estates  long  eiioiigli  to 
get  out  of  my  scrapes.  You  can't  be  jealous 
of  her.  Slie  hates  nie.  I  liate  lier,  and  love 
you— yes,  better  than  life.  WluMi  sin;  finds 
out  that  I  am  married  to  lier  slie  will  hate 
me  still  more.  The  marriage  is  only  a  I'orin, 
only  a  means  of  getting  money,  so  tliat  I 
may  live  with  my  own  true  wife,  my  darling 
Lucy,  in  peace,  and  free  from  this  iutolerublo 
despair.' 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


123 


"  By  such  assurances  as  these — by  dwelling 
incessantly  upon  the  fact  that  I  was  his  wife, 
and  that  this  iiroposed  marriage  to  you  was 
an  empty  form — upon  yoiir  hate  for  him,  and 
the  certainty  of  your  still  greater  hate,  he 
gradually  worked  upon  me.  He  appealed 
to  my  love  for  him,  my  pity  for  his  situation, 
and  to  every  feeling  that  could  move  me  in 
his  favor.  Then  it  was  that  he  told  me 
frankly  the  name  of  the  clergyman  who  had 
married  us,  and  the  witness.  The  clergy- 
man's name  was  Porter,  and  the  witness  was 
a  Captain  Reeves.  So,  in  spite  of  my  abhor- 
rence of  the  act,  I  was  led  at  last,  out  of  niy 
very  love  to  him,  and  regard  for  his  future, 
to  acquiesce  in  his  plan.  Above  all,  I  was 
moved  by  one  thing  upon  which  he  laid 
great  stress. 

" '  It  will  really  he  for  her  benefit,'  he 
would  say.  'She  will  not  be  married  at 
all.  I  shall  take  some  of  her  money,  cer- 
tainly ;  but  she  is  so  enormously  rich  that 
she  will  never  ftel  it ;  besides,  if  I  didn't  get 
it,  Wiggins  would.  Better  for  her  cousin  to 
have  it.  It  will  be  all  in  the  family.  Above 
all,  this  will  be  the  means,  and  the  only 
means,  of  freeing  her  from  that  iiyiuison- 
ment  in  which  Wiggins  keeps  her.  That  is 
her  chief  desire.  She  will  gain  it.  After  I 
pay  my  debts  I  will  explain  all  to  her ;  and 
what  is  more,  when  I  succeed  to  my  own  in- 
heritance, as  I  must  do  in  time,  I  shall  pay 
her  every  penny.' 

"  By  such  plausible  reasoning  as  this  he 
drove  away  my  last  objection,  and  so,  with- 
out any  further  hesitation,  I  went  about  that 
task. 

"  But  oh,  how  hard  it  was  !  Over  and  over 
again  I  f(!lt  like  giving  up.  But  always  he 
was  ready  to  urge  me  on,  until  at  last  it  was 
accomplished,  an<l  ended  »'s  you  remember." 

Miss  Fortescue  paused  here,  and  made 
no  reply.  Edith  said  not  a  word.  Wliy 
should  she  ?  What  availed  this  woman's 
repentance  now  f 

"I  came  here,"  continued  Miss  Fortescue 
at  huigtli,  "  first  of  all  to  explain  this,  but  to 
tell  you  other  things  also.  I  nnist  now  till 
you  sonietiiing  which  makes  your  position 
more  painful  than  I  thought  it  would  be. 
I  soon  found  out  the  full  <lepth  of  ("ajitain 
Dndleigh's  villainy.  While  I  thought  that 
you  only  were  <leceived,  I  found  that  I  was 
the  one  who  was  most  deceived. 

"  Afttir  that  marrijige  in  the  chajiel  we 
went  back  to  Dalton,  and  tlien<  he  abused 
me  in  tlie  most  frightful  manner.  He  jire- 
tended  to  l»e  enraged  because  I  rebuked  liiin 
in  the  cha|iel.  His  rage  was  only  a  |)retense. 
Then  it  all  came  out.  He  told  mi^  ))lainly 
that  my  marriage  with  him  was  a  mockery  ; 
that  the  man  Porter  who  had  nuirried  us 
was  not  a  clergyman  at  all,  but  a  crt  ature 
of  liis  whom  he  had  brilted  to  otticiate  ;  that 
Reeves  was  not  a  captain,  ami  tlmt  his  tes- 
timony in  any  case  would  be  useless.     All 


this  was  crnshing.  It  was  something  that 
was  so  entirely  in  accordance  with  my  own 
fears  that  I  had  not  a  word  to  say.  He  rail- 
ed at  me  like  a  madman,  and  informed  me 
that  he  had  only  tolerated  me  here  at  Dal- 
ton so  as  to  use  me  as  his  tool.  And  this 
was  our  last  interview.  He  left  me  there, 
and  I  have  never  seen  him  since.  He  said 
ho  was  your  husband,  and  was  going  to  live 
at  Dalton.  I  could  do  nothing.  I  went, 
however,  to  the  gates,  got  sight  of  Wiggins, 
and  for  your  sake  I  told  him  all.  I  tiiought 
it  was  better  for  you  to  remain  under  the 
authority  of  Wiggins  than  to  be  in  the  pow- 
er of  such  a  villain  as  Captain  Dudleigli.  I 
told  Wiggins  also  that  I  still  had  a  hope 
that  my  nnirriage  was  valid.  I  went  back 
at  once  to  London,  and  tried  to  find  out 
clergymen  named  Porter.  I  have  seen  sev- 
eral, and  written  to  many  others  whoso 
names  I  have  seen  on  the  church  list,  but 
none  of  them  know  any  thing  about  such  a 
marriage  as  mine.  I  began,  therefore,  to 
fear  that  he  was  r'ght,  and  if  so — I  was  not 
his  wife." 

Silence  followed  now  for  some  time.  Miss 
Fortescue  was  waiting  to  see  tlie  effect  of 
her  story,  and  Edith  was  nie<litating  upon 
the  facts  with  which  this  strange?  revelation 
dealt.  Although  she  had  been  so  great  a 
sufferer,  still  slie  did  not  feid  resentment 
now  against  this  betrayer.  For  fiiis  one  was 
uo  longer  the  miserable,  |ierfidious  go-be- 
tween, l)ut  rather  an  injured  wile  led  to  do 
wrong  by  the  pressure  put  upon  her,  and  by 
her  <iwn  lovt>. 

"Then  that  was  not  a  mock  nuirriagef" 
said  h]h\  at  last. 

"  By  justice  ami  right  it  was  no  niiirriiige," 
said  Miss  Fortescue ;  "  but  how  tlic  law  may 
regard  it  I  ilo  not  know." 

"  Has  Sir  Lionel  been  heard  of  yet !"  asked 
Edith,  after  another  i)ause. 

"Sir  Lionel!"  said  Miss  Fortescue,  in  sur- 
prise. "Oh,  I  had  forgotten.  Miss  Dalton, 
that,  I  grieve  to  say,  was  all  a  fiction.  Ho 
was  never  out  of  the  country." 

"Did  yon  ever  speak  a  word  of  truth  to 
mef"  asked  Edith,  indignantly. 

Miss  Fortescue  was  silent. 

"  At  any  rate,  it  is  of  no  conseiiueiu'e  now," 
said  Edith.  "Sir  Lionel  is  nothing  to  me; 
for  he  must  look  with  hori'or  on  one  whom 
he  believes  to  i)e  the  slayer  of  his  son." 

"Oh,  Miss  Dalton!"  luu'st  forth  Miss  For- 
tescue, "do  not  despair;  he  will  lie  I'onnd 
yet." 

"Found!  He  has  been  found.  Did  you 
not  hear  f" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  do  not  believe 
that  it  was  him.  I  believi?  that  he  is  alive. 
This  is  all  a  mistake.  I  will  search  fur  him. 
I  do  not  believe  that  this  is  him.  1  Itelieve 
ho  is  alive.  Oh,  Miss  Dalton,  if  1  could  only 
do  this  for  you,  I  should  be  willing  to  die. 
i  But  1  will  try ;  I  know  how  to  get  on  hit) 


124 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


'•HE    SAW    IIKK    HEAD   lAI.L." 


track ;  I  know  where  to  go ;  I  must  bear  of 
him,  if  ho  in  alive.  Try  to  have  hope ;  do 
uot  dt'Hpair." 

Edith  Hhook  her  head  mournfully. 

MiHHFortt'Hcuo  tried  Htill  further  to  lessen 
Edith's  df.spair,  and  assured  her  that  she 
had  hopes  hcirself  of  finding  him  hefore  it  was 
too  late,  hut  her  words  produced  no  effect. 

"  1  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive  me,"  said 
Miss  Fortcscuti;  "that  would  he  almost  in- 
solence ;  hut  I  entreat  you  to  helieve  that  I 
will  devote  myself  to  you,  and  that  you  have 
one  whose  only  pur))ose  in  life  now  is  to 
save  you  from  this  fearful  fate.  Thus  far 
you  have  known  me  only  as  a  speaker  of  lies; 
hut  renicniher,  I  pray  you,  what  my  position 
was.  I  was  jdaying  a  part — as  Mrs.  Mow- 
hray — as  Lieutenant  Dudleigh — as  Barber 
the  lawyer — " 

"Bar'her!"  exclaimed  Edith.  "What! 
Biirher  too  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Fortescue,  sadly;  "all 
those  parts  were  niin<^  It  was  easy  to  play 
them  })ef'ore  ont^  so  lioncst  and  so  unsuspect- 
ing ;  hut  oh,  Miss  Diilton,  believe  me,  it  is 
in  playing  a  part  only  that  I  have  deceived 
you.  Now,  when  I  no  longer  ])lay  a  part, 
hut  come  to  you  in  my  own  person,  I  will  be  festation  of  her  feelings,  for  she  had  taken 
true.  I  will  devote  myself  to  the  work  of  up  the  cause  of  the  murdered  man  willi  a 
saving  you  from  this  terrible  position  in  warmth  and  vindictive  zeal  that  showed 
which  I  have  done  so  much  to  place  you."     j  Edith  jilainly  what  she  might  expect  from 

Edith  made  no  reply,  and  soon  after  Miss  i  her.  Her  only  friend,  Miss  Plympton,  was 
Fortescue  departed,  leaving  her  to  her  own  |  still  lost  to  her ;  and  her  illness  seemed  jtrob- 
rellections.  able,  since,  if  it  were  uot  so,  she  would  not 

keep  aloof  from  her  at  such  a  moment  as 
this.  Hoi)eless  as  she  had  been  of  late,  she 
now  found  that  tliere  were  depths  of  despair 
below  those  in  which  she  had  thus  far  been 
— "  in  the  lowest  de(!p,  a  lower  «leep." 

It"  any  thing  could  have  added  to  the  Such  were  her  thoughts  and  feelings 
misery  of  Editli  and  her  general  desponden-  through  the  remainder  of  that  day  and 
ey,  it  would  have  been  the  revelations  of  through  the  following  night.  But  little 
Miss  Fortescue.  It  had  certainly  been  bad  sleep  came  to  her.  The  future  stood  before 
enough  to  recall  the  treachery  of  a  false  her  witliout  one  ray  of  light  to  shini?  through 
friend;  but  the  facts  as  .just  revealed  went  its  appalling  gloom.  On  the  next  day  her 
far  beyond  what  slie  had  innigined.  They  despair  seemed  even  greater;  her  faculties 
revealed  sucili  a  long  course  of  persistent  seenunl  benumbed,  and  a  dull  apathy  be- 
deceit.  and  showed  tiiat  she  had  l)een  sub-  gan  to  settle  down  over  her  soul, 
ject  to  such  manifold,  long-sustained,  and  <  From  this  state  of  mind  she  was  'oused 
compreliensive  lying,  that  she  began  to  lose  by  the  oi)ening  of  the  door  and  the  enrrance 
faith  in  human  nature.  AVhom  now  could  of  a  visitor.  Turning  round,  she  saw  Wig- 
she  believe  If    Could  she  ventun;  to  put  con-    gins. 

tidence  in  this  confession  of  Miss  Fortescue  t  This  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  seen 
Was  that  her  real  name,  and  was  this  her  him  since  she  left  Dalton  Hall,  and  in  spite 
real  story,  or  was  it  all  scnue  mnv  ])iece  of  of  that  stolid  and  apathetic  inditlcrence 
acting,  contrived  by  this  all-accomplished  which  had  come  to  her,  she  could  not  lielp 
actor  for  the  sake  of  dragging  her  down  to  being  struck  by  the  change  which  liad  come 
deeper  abysses  of  woeT  iShe  felt  herself  to  over  iiim.  His  face  seemed  whiter,  his  hair 
be  surrounded  by  remorseless  enemies,  all  grayer,  his  form  more  bent;  his  footsteps 
of  whom  were  i)lotting  against  her,  aiul  in  were  feeble  and  uncertain  ;  he  leaned  heav- 
Avhose  hearts  then^  was  no  possil)ility  of  ily  upon  his  walking-stick;  and  in  the 
pity  or  remorse.  Wiggins,  the  archenemy,  glance  that  he  turned  toward  her  there  was 
was  acting  a  part  which  was  mysterious  untold  sympathy  and  compassion,  together 
just  now,  but  which  nevertheless,  she  felt  with  a  timid  supplication  that  was  unlike 
sure,  was  aimed  at  her  very  life.  Mrs.  Dun-  any  thing  which  she  had  seen  in  him  before, 
bar,  she  knew,  was  more  open  in  the  maui- 1      Edith  neither  said  any  thing  nor  did  any 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A    REVKLATION. 


he  had 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


125 


thing.  Sho  looked  at  him  with  dull  indif- 
ference. She  did  not  move.  The  thought 
came  to  her  that  this  was  merely  another 
move  in  that  great  game  of  treachery  and 
fraud  to  which  she  had  been  a  viiitim ;  that 
here  was  tlie  archtraitor,  the  instigator  of 
all  the  lesser  movements,  who  was  coming 
to  her  in  order  to  cany  out  some  necessary 
part. 

Wiggins  sat  down  wearily  upon  one  of 
th(!  rude  chairs  of  the  scantily  furnishtid 
room,  and  after  a  brief  silence,  looking  at 
her  sadly,  began. 

"  1  know,"  said  he,  "  how  you  misunder- 
stand me,  and  how  unwelcome  1  must  be ; 
but  I  had  to  come,  so  as  to  assure  you  that 
I  hope  to  find  this  man  who  is  missing.  I — 
I  hope  to  do  so  before  the — the  trial.  I 
have  been  searching  all  along,  but  without 
success — thus  far.  I  wish  to  assure  you 
that  I  h.ave  found  out  a  way  by  which  you 
— will  be  saved.  And  if  you  believe  me,  I 
trust  that  you  will — try — to — cherish  more 
hope  than  you  appear  to  be  doing." 

He  paused, 

Edith  said  nothing  at  all.  She  was  silent 
partly  out  of  apathy,  and  i)artly  from  a  de- 
termination to  give  him  no  satisfaction,  for 
she  felt  that  any  wonls  of  ht^rs,  no  matter 
how  simple,  might  be  distorted  and  used 
against  her. 

Wiggins  looked  at  her  with  imploring 
earnestness,  and  seemed  to  wait  for  her  to 
say  something.  But  finding  her  silent,  he 
went  on : 

"  Will  you  let  me  a.sk  you  one  question  ? 
and  forgive  me  for  asking  it;  but  it  is  of 
some  importiince  to — to  me — and  to  you. 
It  is  this:  Did — did  you  see  him  at  all — that 
night  ?" 

"  I  have  been  warned,"  replied  Edith,  in  a 
dull,  cold  tone,  "  to  say  nothing,  and  I  intend 
to  say  nothing." 

Wiggins  sighed. 

"  To  say  nothing,"  said  he,  "is  not  always 
wise.  I  once  knew  a  man  who  was  charg<'d 
with  terrible  crimes — crimes  of  which  he  was 
incapable.  Ho  was  innocent,  utterly.  Not 
only  innocent,  indeed,  but  h<»  bad  fallen  un- 
der this  suspicion, and  had  become  the  object 
of  tiiis  charge,  simply  on  account  of  his  act- 
ive efforts  to  save  a  guilty  friend  from  ruin. 
His  frieiul  was  the  guilty  one,  and  his  fri;'nd 
was  also  his  sister's  husband  ;  and  this  man 
had  gone  to  try  and  save  his  friend,  when  lit! 
himself  was  arrested  for  that  friend's  crimes." 

Wiggins  did  not  look  at  Edith ;  his  eyes 
were  downcast.  He  spoke  in  a  tone  that 
seemed  more  like  a  solilotpiy  than  any  thing 
else.  It  was  a  tone,  however,  which,  though 
low,  was  yet  tremulous  with  ill-suppressed 
agitation. 

"  He  was  accused,"  continued  Wiggins, 
"and  if  he  had  spoken  and  told  what  he 
knew,  he  might  have  saved  his  life.  Hut  if 
he  had  done  this  he  would  have  had  to  be- 


!  come  a  witness,  and  stand  up  in  court  and 
'  say  that  which  would  ruin  his  friend.  And 
,  so  he  could  not  speak.  His  lips  were  sealed. 
To  s])eak  would  have  been  to  inform  against 
his  friend.  How  could  ho  do  that  f  It  was 
ini]>ossib1e.  Yet  some  may  think — you  may 
think — tliat  this  man  did  wrong  in  allowing 
himself  to  be  put  in  this  false  ])ositi<)n.  You 
may  say  that  he  liad  more  than  himstdf  to 
consider— he  had  his  family,  his  name,  his 
— his  wife,  his  child  ! 

"Yes,"  resumed  Wiggins,  after  a  long 
pause,  "this  is  all  true,  and  he  did  consider 
them,  all — all — all!  He  did  not  tritle  with 
his  family  name  and  honor,  but  it  was  rath- 
er on  account  of  the  pride  which  lie  took  in 
these  that  he  kept  his  silence.  He  was  con- 
scious of  hi,<  perfect  innocence.  He  could 
not  think  it  possible  that  such  charges  could 
be  carried  out  against  one  lik(!  himself.  Ho 
believed  implicitly  in  the  Justice  of  the 
courts  of  his  country.  He  tiioiight  that  in 
a  fair  trial  the  innocent  could  not  possi- 
bly be  proclaimed  guilty.  More  than  all, 
he  thought  that  his  proud  name,  his  stain- 
less character,  and  even  his  wealtli  and  posi- 
tion, would  have  shown  the  world  that  the 
charges  were  simply  impossible.  He  thought 
tlhat  all  men  would  have  seen  that  for  him 
to  have  done  such  things  would  involve  in- 
sanity." 

As  Wiggins  said  this  his  voice  grew  more 
earnest  and  animated.  He  looked  at  Edith 
with  his  soli  ■nn  eyes,  and  seemed  as  though 
he  was  jileading  with  her  the  caiists  of  his 
friend — as  though  ho  was  trying  to  show 
her  how  it  had  luqijiened  that  the  father 
had  dishonored  the  name  which  the  child 
must  bear — as  though  he  was  justifying  to 
tlie  daughter,  Edith  Daltou,  the  acts  of  the 
father,  Frederick  Dalton. 

"Sf>  he  bore  it  all  with  perfect  calmness," 
continued  Wiggins,  "  and  had  no  doubt  that 
he  would  be  actpiitted,  and  thought  that 
thus  he  W(uild  at  least  be  able,  without 
much  suffering,  to  save  his  friend  from  ruin 
most  teriitic — from  the  condemnation  of  the 
courts  and  the  fate  of  a  felon." 

Wiggins  paused  once  more  for  some  time. 
Jlo  was  looking  at  P^ditli.  He  liad  expected 
some  remark,  but  she  had  made  none.  In 
fact,  she  had  regarded  all  this  as  a  new  trick 
of  Wiggins — a  transparent  one  too — the  aim 
of  wliich  was  to  win  lua"  ciuitidence  liy  thus 
pretending  to  vindicate  her  father.  He  had 
already  tried  to  work  on  her  in  that  way, 
and  had  faihid  ;  and  on  this  occasion  he  met 
with  t\tp  sanit!  failure. 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  you  to  bo  silent, 
I  think,"  said  Wiggins,  turning  from  the  sub- 
ject to  the  situation  of  Edith.  "  Von  have 
no  friend  at  stake;  you  will  endanger  no 
one,  and  save  yourself,  by  telling  whether 
you  are  innocent  or  not." 

Tln>se  last  words  roused  Edith.  It  was 
an  allusion  to  her  x>ui^Hible  guilt.     She  do- 


186 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


tormincd  to  bring  tho  interview  to  a  close. 
She  WHH  tired  of  this  inun  and  liis  attempts 
to  deceive  her.  It  was  painful  to  see  through 
all  this  hypocrisy  and  perfidy  at  tho  very 
moment  when  they  were  being  used  against 
horsijlf. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  stony  gaze,  and 
spoke  in  low,  cold  tones  as  she  addressed 
him.  "This  is  all  useless.  I  am  on  uiy 
guard.  Why  you  come  here  I  do  not  know. 
Of  course  you  wish  to  entrap  me  into  saying 
something,  so  that  you  may  «ise  my  words 
against  nie  at  the  trial.  You  ask  me  if  I 
SUV/  this  man  on  that  night.  You  usk  mo  if 
I  am  innocent.  You  well  know  that  I  am  in- 
nocent. You,  and  you  only,  know  who  saw 
him  last  on  that  night;  for  as  I  believe  in 
my  own  existence,  so  I  believe,  aiul  affirm  to 
your  face,  that  this  Leon  Dudleigb  was  mur- 
dered by  you,  and  yon  only !" 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly  as  she  said  this, 
returning  her  stony  gaze  with  a  mournful 
look — a  pitying  look,  full  of  infinite  sadness 
and  tenderness.  He  raised  his  hand  dc^pre- 
catingly,  but  said  nothing  until  she  had  ut- 
tered those  last  words. 

"  Stop !"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice — "  stay !  I 
can  not  bear  it." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  came  close  to 
her.  He  leaned  upon  his  stick  heavily,  and 
'ooked  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  that  same 
Btrtinge,  inexplicable  tenderness  and  com- 
]>a88ion.  Her  eyes  seemed  fascinated  by 
his,  and  in  her  mind  there  arose  a  strange 
bewilderment,  an  expectation  of  something 
she  knew  not  what. 

"Edith,"  said  he,  in  a  sweet  and  gentle 
voice,  full  of  tender  melancholy — "  Edith,  it 
would  be  sin  in  me  to  let  you  any  longer 
heap  up  matter  for  future  remorse;  and 
even  though  I  go  against  the  bright  hope 
of  my  life  in  saying  this  now,  yet  I  must. 
Edith—" 

He  paused,  looking  at  her,  while  she  re- 
garded him  with  awful  eyes. 

"Edith!"  ho  said  again — "my — my — 
child !" 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  now,  and 
there  was  on  his  face  a  look  of  unutterable 
love  and  unspeakable  pity  and  forgiveness. 
He  reached  out  his  baud  and  placed  it  ten- 
derly upon  her  head. 

"Edith,"  he  said  again,  "my  child,  yon 
will  never  say  these  things  again.  I — I  do 
not  deserve  them.  I — am  your — your  fa- 
ther, Edith!" 

At  these  words  a  convulsive  shudder 
passed  through  Edith.  He  felt  her  frail 
form  tremble,  ho  saw  her  head  fall,  and 
heard  a  low  sob  that  seemed  torn  from  her. 

She  needed  no  more  words  than  these.  In 
an  instant  she  saw  it  all ;  and  though  be- 
wildered, she  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt 
his  words.  But  her  whole  being  was  over- 
whelmed by  a  sudden  and  a  sharp  agony  of 
.remorse ;  for  she  bod  accustomed  herself  to 


hat«  this  man,  and  the  irrepressible  tokens 
of  a  father's  love  she  had  regarded  as  hy- 
pocrisy. She  had  never  failed  to  heap  upon 
that  reverend  head  the  deepest  scorn,  con- 
tumely, and  insult.  Hut  a  moment  before 
she  had  hurled  at  him  a  terrible  accusation. 
At  him !  At  whom  f  At  the  man  whoso 
mournful  destiny  it  had  been  all  along  to 
suffer  for  the  sins  of  others ;  and  she  it  was 
who  had  fiung  upon  him  an  additional  bur- 
den of  grief. 

But  with  all  her  remorse  there  were  other 
feelings — a  shrinking  sense  of  terror,  a  re- 
coil from  this  sudden  discovery  as  from  some- 
thing abhorrent.  This  her  father!  That 
father's  face  and  form  had  been  stamped  in 
her  memory.  For  years,  as  she  had  lived  in 
the  hope  of  seeing  him,  she  had  quickened 
her  love  for  him  and  fed  her  hopes  from  his 
portrait.  But  how  different  was  this  one ! 
What  a  frightful  change  from  tho  father 
that  lived  in  her  memory !  Tho  one  was  a 
young  man  in  the  flush  and  pride  of  life  and 
strength  — the  other  a  woe-worn ,  grief-strick- 
en sufferer,  with  reverend  head,  bowed  form, 
and  trembling  limbs.  Besides,  she  had  long 
regarded  him  as  dead ;  and  to  see  this  man 
was  like  looking  on  one  who  had  risen  from 
the  dead. 

In  an  instant,  however,  all  was  plain,  and 
together  with  tho  discovery  there  came  tho 
pangs  of  remorse  and  tenor  and  anguish. 
She  could  understand  all.  He,  the  escaped 
convict,  had  come  to  England,  and  was  sup- 
posed to  bo  dead.  He  had  lived,  under  a 
false  name,  a  life  of  constant  and  vigilant 
terror.  He  kept  his  secret  from  all  the 
world.  Oh,  if  he  had  only  told  her !  Now 
the  letter  of  Miss  Plympton  was  all  plain, 
and  she  wondered  how  she  had  been  so 
blind. 

"  Oh !"  she  moaned,  in  a  scarce  audible 
voice,  "  why  did  you  not  tell  mo  f" 

"  Oh,  Edith  darling !  my  child !  my  only 
love !"  murmured  Frederick  Dalton,  bending 
low  over  her,  and  infolding  her  tremlding 
frame  in  his  own  trembling  arms ;  "  my  sweet 
daughter,  if  you  could  only  have  known  how 
I  yearned  over  yon !  But  I  delayed  to  tell 
you.  It  was  the  one  sweet  hope  of  my  life 
to  redeem  my  name  from  its  foul  stain,  and 
then  declare  myself.  I  Avanted  you  to  get 
your  father  back  as  he  had  left  you,  without 
this  abhorrent  crime  laid  to  his  charge.  I 
did  wrong  not  to  trust  you.  It  was  a  bitter, 
bitter  error.  But  I  had  so  set  my  heart  on 
it.  It  was  all  for  your  sake,  Edith — all, 
darling,  for  your  sake !" 

Edith  could  bear  no  more.  Every  one  of 
these  words  was  a  fresh  stab  to  her  remorse- 
ful heart— every  tone  showed  to  her  tho 
depth  of  love  that  lay  in  that  father's  heart, 
and  revealed  to  her  the  suffering  that  she 
must  have  caused.  It  was  too  much ;  and 
with  a  deep  groan  she  sank  away  from  his 
arms  upon  the  floor.     She  clasped  his  knees 


ed 
ha 
so 
on 
be 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


127 


bio 


■o 
Is 


— she  (lid  not  dare  to  look  up.  She  wish- 
ed only  to  he  a  supjjliant.  He  liimHelf 
had  prophcHit'd  tliis.  HIh  terrihle  wnmings 
sounded  even  now  in  her  ears.  Slie  had  only 
one  thought — to  humble  herself  in  the  dust 
before  that  injured  fatlier. 

Dalton  tried  to  raise  her  up. 

"My  darlinj^!"  he  cried,  "my  child!  you 
must  not — you  will  break  my  lienrt!" 

"  Oil,"  moaned  Edith,  "  if  it  is  not  already 
broken,  how  can  yon  ever  forgive  mef — 
how  can  you  >.'all  me  your  child  f" 

"  My  ciiild !  my  child  !"  said  Dalton.  "  It 
was  for  you  that  I  lived.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  the  thought  of  yoti,  I  should  have  died 
long  since.  It  was  for  your  sake  that  I  came 
home.  It  is  for  you  only  that  I  live  now. 
There  is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive.  Look 
up  at  me.  Let  me  see  your  darling  face.  Let 
me  hear  you  say  one  word — only  one  word — 
the  word  that  I  have  hungered  and  thirsted 
to  hear.     Call  me  father." 

"Father!  oh,  father!  dear  father!"  burst 
forth  Edith,  clinging  to  him  with  convulsive 
energy,  and  weeping  bitterly. 

"  Oil,  my  darling !"  said  Dalton,  "  I  was  to 
blame.  How  could  you  have  borne  what  I 
expected  you  to  bear,  when  I  would  not  give 
you  my  confidence  ?  Do  not  let  us  speak  of 
forgiveness.  You  loved  your  fatlier  all  the 
time,  and  you  thought  that  I  was  his  enemy 
and  yours." 

Gradually  Edith  became  calmer,  and  her 
calmness  was  increased  by  the  discovery 
that  her  father  was  painfully  weak  and  ex- 
hausted. He  had  been  overwhelmed  by  the 
emotions  which  this  interview  had  called 
forth.  He  now  sat  gazing  at  her  with  speech- 
less love,  holding  her  hands  in  his,  but  his 
breath  came  and  went  rapidly,  and  there 
was  a  feverish  tremulousness  in  his  voice 
and  a  flush  on  his  pale  cheeks  which  alarmed 
her.  She  tried  to  lessen  his  agitation  by 
talking  about  her  own  prospects,  but  Dalton 
did  not  wish  to. 

"  Not  now,  daughter,"  he  said.  "  I  will 
hear  it  all  some  other  time.  I  am  too  weary. 
Let  mo  only  look  at  your  dear  face,  and  hear 
you  call  me  by  tliat  sweet  name,  and  feel 
my  child's  hands  in  mine.  That  will  be 
bliss  enough  for  this  day.  Another  time 
we  will  speak  about  the — the  situation  that 
you  are  in." 

As  ho  was  thus  agitated,  Edith  was  forced 
to  refrain  from  asking  him  a  thousand  things 
which  she  was  longing  to  know.  She  wished 
to  learn  how  l:o  had  escaped,  how  he  had 
made  it  to  bo  believed  that  he  was  dead,  and 
whether  he  was  in  any  present  danger.  But 
all  this  she  had  to  postpone.  She  had  also 
to  postpone  her  knowledge  of  that  great  se- 
cret— the  secret  that  had  baffled  her,  and 
which  he  had  preserved  inviolable  through 
all  these  years.  She  now  saw  that  her  sus- 
picions of  the  man  "John  Wiggins"  mui^t 
have  been  unfounded,  and  indeed  the  per- 


I  Bonality  of  "Wiggins"  became  a  complete 
puzzle  to  her. 

I      He  bade  her  a  tender  adieu,  promising  to 

I  come  early  on  the  following  day. 

Hut  on  the  following  day  there  were  no 
signs  of  him.  Edith  waited  in  terribln  im- 
patience, which  finally  deejMMied  into  alarm 
as  his  coming  was  still  delayed.  She  had 
known  so  nnuh  of  sorrow  that  sln^  had  h-arn- 
ed  to  look  for  it,  and  began  to  exi)ect  some 
new  calamity.  Here,  wliere  she  had  fouud 
her  father,  where  she  had  received  his  for- 

]  giveness  for  that  wliich  would  never  ceasn 

,  to  cause  remorse  to  herself,  luae,  in  this  mo- 
ment of  respite  from  despair,  she  saw  the 
black  prospect  of  renewed  misery.     It  was 

I  as  though  she  had  found  him  for  a  moment, 

I  only  to  lose  him  forever. 

I  Toward  evening  a  note  was  sent  to  her. 
She  tore  it  open.  It  was  from  Mi.).  Dunbar, 
and  informed  her  that  her  father  was  cpiite 
ill,  and  was  unable  to  visit  her,  but  hoped 
that  he  might  recover. 

After  that  several  days  passed,  and  she 
heard  nothing.  At  length  another  note 
came  informing  her  that  her  father  liad 
been  dangerously  iil,  but  was  now  conva- 
lescent. 

Other  days  passed,  and  Edith  heard  regu- 
larly. Her  father  was  growing  steadily  bet- 
ter. On  one  of  these  notes  he  had  written 
his  name  with  a  trembling  hand. 

And  so  amidst  these  fresh  sorrows,  and 
with  her  feelings  ever  alternating  biitwoen 
hojje  and  despair,  Edith  lingered  on  through 
the  time  that  intervened  until  the  day  of 
the  trial. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THK   THIAL. 

At  length  the  day  for  the  trial  arrived, 
and  the  i>lace  was  crowded.     At  the  appear- 

I  anco  of  Edith  there  arose  a  murmur  of  uni- 
versal symjiathy  and  pity.     All  the  impres- 

1  sions  which  had  been  formed  of  her  were 
falsified.  Some  had  expected  to  see  a  coarse 
masculine  woman  ;  others  a  crafty,  sinister 
face ;  oth(!r8  an  awkward,  ill-bred  rustic,  neg- 
lected since  her  father's  trial  by  designing 
guardians.      Instead  of  this  there  apjtear- 

j  ed  before  them  a  slender,  graceful,  youth- 
ful form,  with  high  retinemeiit  and  jierfect 
breeding  in  every  oiitliiKs  and  movement. 
The  heavy  masses  of  her  dark  hair  were 
folded  across  her  brow,  and  wreathed  in  vo- 
luminous folds  behind.  Her  jiallid  face  bore 
traces  of  many  griefs  through  which  she  had 

'  passed,  and  her  large  sjiiritnal  eyes  had  a 
piteous  look  as  they  wandered  for  a  moment 
over  the  crowd. 

;  No  one  was  prepared  to  see  any  thing  like 
this,  and  all  hearts  were  at  once  touched. 
It  seemed  preposterous  to  suppose  tliat  one 
like  her  could  be  otherwise  than  innocent. 


128 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Tho  nsnnl  formulas  took  place,  and  the 
trial  b('f{un.  The  witiicMt«in  were  tliosc  who 
had  already  been  examined.  It  was  ru- 
mored that  Sir  Lionel  Diidleigh  was  to  bo 
brou^rht  forward,  and  "  Wijjjjins,"  and  Mrs. 
Dunbar,  but  not  till  the  follow in>?  day. 

At  the  end  of  that  day  the  oi)inion  of  the 
public  was  8tronj?ly  in  favor  of  Kdith;  but 
still  there  was  great  uncertainty  as  to  her 
guilt  or  innocence.  It  was  generally  be- 
lieved that  she  had  been  subject  to  too  much 
restriiint,  and  in  a  foolish  d(!8iro  to  escape 
had  b(!en  induced  to  marry  Dudleigh.  But 
she  had  found  him  a  wor.to  master  than  the 
other,  and  had  bated  him  from  the  tirst,  so 
that  they  had  many  quarrels,  in  which  she 
had  fre(!ly  threatened  his  life.  Finally  both 
had  diHa|>peared  on  tho  same  uight.  He  was 
dead ;  she  survived. 

The  diuicased  could  not  have  committed 
suicide,  for  the  head  was  missing.  Had  it 
not  been  for  that  missing  head,  the  theory 
of  suicide  would  have  been  ])lausible. 

The  second  day  of  the  trial  came.  Edith 
had  seen  her  father  on  tho  previous  evening, 
and  had  learned  something  from  him  which 
had  juoduced  a  bene(i<iial  efi'ect,  for  there 
was  less  terror  and  dejection  in  her  face. 
This  was  the  tirst  time  that  she  had  seen  him 
since  his  illness. 

There  was  one  in  tho  hall  that  day  who 
looked  at  her  with  an  earnest  glanco  of 
scrutiny  as  ho  took  his  place  among  the  wit- 
nesses. 

It  was  Sir  Lionel  Dudleigh,  who  had  come 
hero  to  giv(^  what  testimony  he  could  about  j 
his  son.     His  face  v  ^s  as  serene  as  usual;  : 
there  was  no  sadness  upon  it,  such  as  might ; 
have  been  expected  in  the  aspect  of  a  father 
so  terril)ly  bereaved;  but  the  broad  content 
and  placid  bonhomie  appeared  to  be  invin- 
cible. 

The  proceedings  of  this  day  were  begun 
by  an  announcement  on  the  part  of  the 
counsel  for  the  defense,  which  fell  like  a 
thunder- clap  upon  the  court.  Sir  Lionel 
started,  and  all  in  the  court  involuntarily 
stretched  forward  their  heads  as  though  to 
SCO  better  the  approach  of  the  astonishing 
occurrence  which  had  been  announced. 

Tho  announcement  was  simply  this,  that 
any  further  proceedings  were  useless,  since 
the  missing  man  himself  had  been  found, 
and  was  to  be  produced  forthwith.  There 
had  been  no  murder,  and  the  body  that  had 
been  found  must  bo  that  of  some  person  un- 
known. 

Shortly  after  a  group  entered  the  hall. 

First  came  Frederick  Dalton,  known  to 
the  court  as  "  John  Wiggins."  He  still  bore 
traces  of  his  recen'  illness,  and,  indeed,  was 
not  lit  to  be  out  of  his  bed,  but  he  had 
dragged  himself  here  to  be  present  at  this 
momentous  scene.  Ho  wjvs  terribly  emaci- 
ated, and  moved  with  difl9culty,  supported 
by  Mrs.  Dunbar,  who  herself  showed  marks 


of  suifering  and  exhaustion  almost  cqnal  to 
his. 

But  after  these  came  another,  upon  whom 
all  eyes  were  fastened,  and  even  Edith's  gaze 
was  drawn  away  from  her  father,  to  whom 
she  had  longed  to  lly  so  as  to  sustain  his 
dear  form,  and  tixed  upon  this  new-comer. 

Dudleigh !  Ti»)  one  whom  she  had  known 
as  Mowbray.     Dudleigh! 

Yes,  there  he  stood. 

Edith's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  in  speech- 
less unui/.enuuit. 

It  was  Dudleigh,  and  yet  it  seemed  as 
though  it  could  not  be  Dudleigh. 

Thern  was  that  form  and  there  was  that 
face  which  had  haunted  her  tor  so  long  a 
time,  and  had  been  associated  with  so  many 
dark  and  teiTible  memories — the  form  and 
the  face  which  were  so  hateful,  w  liich  never 
were  absent  from  her  thoughts,  and  intruded 
oven  upon  her  dreams. 

Yet  upon  that  face  there  was  now  some- 
thing which  was  not  repulsive  even  to  hor. 
It  was  a  noble,  spiritual  face.  Dudleigh's 
features  were  renuirkablo  for  their  faultless 
outline  and  synmietry,  and  now  the  expres- 
sion was  in  perfect  keeping  with  the  beauty 
of  physical  form,  for  tho  old  hardness  had 
departed,  and  the  deep  stamp  of  sensuality 
and  selfishness  was  gone,  and  the  sinister 
look  which  had  once  marred  those  features 
could  be  traced  there  no  more. 

It  was  thinner  than  the  face  which  Edith 
remembered,  and  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  it 
had  been  worn  down  by  some  illness.  If 
so,  it  must  have  been  the  same  cause  which 
had  imparted  to  those  features  the  refine- 
ment and  high  bearing  which  were  now  vis- 
ible there.  There  was  tho  same  broad  brow 
covered  with  its  clustering  locks,  the  same 
penetrating  eyes,  the  same  square,  strong 
chin,  the  same  firm,  resolute  mouth,  but  here 
it  was  as  though  a  finer  touch  had  added 
a  subtle  grace  to  all  these;  for  about  that 
mouth  there  lingered  the  traces  of  gentleness 
and  kindliness,  like  tho  remnant  of  sweet 
smiles;  tho  glanco  of  tho  eyo  was  warmer 
and  more  human ;  there  was  also  an  air  of 
melancholy,  and  over  all  a  grandeur  of  bear- 
ing which  spoke  of  high  breeding  and  con- 
scious dignity. 

This  nnvn,  with  his  earnest  and  even  mel- 
tancholy  face  and  lofty  bearing,  did  not  seem 
like  one  who  could  have  plotted  so  treach- 
erously against  a  helpless  girl.  His  aspect 
filled  Edith  with  something  akin  to  awe,  and 
produced  a  profound  impression  upon  the 
spectators.  They  forgot  the  hatred  which 
they  had  begun  to  feel  against  Dudleigh  in 
the  living  i)resence  of  the  object  of  their 
h.ate,  and  looked  in  silence  first  at  Edith, 
then  at  the  new-comer,  wondering  why  it 
was  that  between  such  as  these  there  could 
be  any  thing  less  than  mutual  aSection. 
yiiey  thought  they  could  understand  now 
why  she  should  choose  him  as  a  husband. 


MM.Miium'i  111  r  ititirii  **fc'iMrii 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


129 


They  could  not  nndcrstand  liow  such  a  hus- 
band Cduld  become  llilteflll. 

lu  all  the  cmirt  but  ono  object  seemed  tr 
attract  Du<lk'inli,  and  that  was  Edith.  H!m 
eyes  had  wandered  about  at  first,  and  finaUy 
had  rested  on  her.  With  a  glance  oi  j  ro- 
foundest  and  most  jjentle  H.vnii>athy  hiihuk- 
ed  at  her,  convttyin^  in  that  one  look  enough 
to  tlisann  even  her  reHeutinent.  .She  under- 
stood that  look,  and  felt  it,  and  as  she  look- 
ed at  him  in  return  she  was  tilled  with  won- 
der. 

Could  such  thiufjs  bo  T  she  thonj^ht.  Was 
this  the  man  who  had  caused  her  so  much 
surt'ering,  who  had  lilasted  and  blighted  the 
holies  of  her  lifef  or,  rather,  had  the  man 
who  had  so  wronged  her  been  transformed 
to  this T  Impossible!  As  well  might  a  tiend 
become  changed  to  an  archangel.  And  yet 
here  ho  was.  Evidently  this  was  Dudleigh. 
Slui  looked  at  him  in  speechless  bewilder- 
ment. 

The  proceedings  of  the  court  went  on,  and 
Dudleigh  soon  explained  his  disappearance. 
As  he  spoke  his  voice  confirnuid  the  fact  that 
he  was  Dudleigh;  but  Edith  listened  to  it 
with  the  same  feelings  whi(di  had  been  ex- 
cited by  Ids  face.  It  was  the  same  voice, 
yet  not  the  same  ;  it  was  the  voice  of  Dud- 
leigh, but  the  ciddness  and  the  mockery  of 
its  intonations  were  not  there.  Could  he 
have  been  playing  a  dovilV  part  all  along, 
and  was  he  now  coming  out  in  his  true  char- 
acter, or  was  this  a  false  part  ?  No ;  what- 
ever else  was  false,  this  was  not — that  ex- 
pression of  face,  that  glance  of  the  eye,  tho.se 
intonations,  could  never  be  feigned.  So  Edith 
thought  as  she  listened. 

Dudleigh's  explanation  was  a  simple  one. 
He  had  not  been  very  happy  at  Dalton  Hsill, 
and  had  concluded  to  go  away  that  night 
for  a  tour  on  the  Continent.  He  had  left  so 
.'18  to  get  the  early  morning  train,  and  had 
traveled  on  without  stopping  until  he  reach- 
«'d  Palermo,  from  which  he  had  gone  to  dif- 
ferent places  in  the  interior  of  Sicily,  which 
he  mentioned.  Ho  had  climbed  over  the 
gate,  because  he  was  in  too  nnich  of  a  hurry 
to  wfike  the  porter.  He  had  left  his  valise, 
as  he  intended  to  walk.  He  had,  of  course, 
left  his  dog  at  Dalton,  because  lie  couldn't 
take  him  to  the  Continent.  He  had  forgot- 
ten Ills  watch,  for  the  reason  that  he  had  slept 
longer  than  he  intended,  and  dressed  and 
went  ofi'  in  a  great  hurry.  The  pocket-book 
Avhich  he  left  was  of  no  importance — con- 
tained principally  memoranda,  of  no  use  to 
any  but  him.self.  He  had  no  idea  there  would 
have  been  such  a  row,  or  he  would  not  have 
gone  in  such  a  hurry.  He  had  heard  of  this 
for  the  first  time  in  Sicily,  and  would  have 
come  at  once,  but,  unfortunately,  he  had  an 
attack  of  fever,  and  could  not  return  before. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  natural 
and  frank  than  Dudleigh's  statement.  A 
few  (juestious  were  asked,  merely  to  satisfy 


public  curiosity.  Every  ono  thought  that  a 
trip  to  Hi(;ily  was  a  natural  enough  thing  for 
one  who  was  on  such  bad  terms  with  his 
wife,  ami  the  suddenness  of  his  resolution 
to  go  there  was  sutlicient  to  account  for  the 
disordt'r  in  which  he  had  left  his  room. 

Itut  all  this  tinu;  there  was  ono  in  that 
court  who  looked  upon  the  new-conu^r  with 
far  diilerent  feelings  than  thueo  which  any 
other  had. 

This  was  Sir  Lionel  Dudleigh. 

He  had  heard  the  remark  of  the  counsel 
that  Dudleigh  had  returned,  and  looked  to- 
ward the  door  as  he  entered  with  a  smile  on 
his  face.  As  ho  saw  Dudleigh  enter  ho  start- 
ed. Then  his  face  tinned  ghastly  white, and 
his  jaw  fell.  He  clntcheil  the  railing  in  front 
of  him  with  both  hands,  and  seemed  fasci- 
nated by  the  sight. 

Near  him  stood  Mrs.  Dnnbar,  and  Dalton 
leaned  on  her.  Hoth  of  these  looked  fixedly 
at  Sir  Lionel,  and  noticed  his  emotion. 

At  the  sound  of  Dudleigh's  voice  Sir  Lio- 
nel's emotion  increased.  He  breathed  heav- 
ily. His  face  turned  purple.  His  knuekles 
turned  white  as  he  grasped  the  railing.  Sud- 
denly, in  the  midst  of  Dudleigh's  remarks,  he 
started  to  liis  feet,  an«l  seemed  about  to  say 
something.  Innuediately  in  front  of  him 
were  Dalton  and  Mrs.  Dunbar.  At  that  in- 
stant, as  he  rose,  Mrs.  Dunbar  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm. 

He  looked  at  her  with  astonishment.  He 
had  not  seen  her  before.  She  fixed  her  sol- 
enni  eyes  on  him — those  eyes  to  which  had 
come  a  gloom  more  profound,  and  a  sadness 
deeper  than  before.  Hut  Sir  Lionel  stared 
at  her  without  recognition,  and  impatiently 
tried  to  shake  off  her  hand. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  said,  suddenly,  in  a 
trend)liiig  voice  —  for  there  was  something 
in  this  woman's  face  that  suggested  startling 
thoughts. 

Mrs.  Dunbar  drew  nearer  to  him,  and  in  a 
whisjier  that  thriih'd  through  every  fibre  of 
Sir  Lionel's  frinue,  hissed  in  his  ear, 

"/  am  yuitr  wife  —  and  here  ii  my  bivtlur 
Fmhrickr 

Over  Sir  Lionel's  face  there  came  a  flash 
of  horror,  sudden,  sharp,  and  overwhelming. 
He  staggered  and  shrank  back. 

*' Claudino!"  he  murmured,  in  a  stilled 
voice. 

"  Sit  down,"  whispered  Lady  Dudleigh — 
now  no  longer  Mrs.  Dunbar — ''sit  down,  or 
you  shall  have  to  change  places  with  Fred- 
erick's daughter." 

Sir  Lionel  swayed  backward  and  forward, 
and  apjieared  not  to  hear  her.  And  now  his 
eyes  wandered  to  Dalton,  who  stood  gazing 
scdemnly  at  him,  and  then  to  Dudleigh,  who 
was  still  speaking. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  ho  ga.sped. 

"  Your  son !''  said  Lady  Dudleigh. 

At  this  instant  Dudleigh  finished.  Sir 
Lionel  gave  a  terrible  groan,  and  flung  uji 


' 


1 


130 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


'•UK   I.UUKED    AT   HEK   WITH    AS10M8IIMENT." 


I'is  arms  wildly.  Tlio  next  instant  ho  foil 
litavily  fiirwanl,  and  was  caii<;lit  in  tlio  arms 
of  Ills  wife.  A  crowd  (low  to  his  assistanco, 
and  lie  was  <  arriod  out  of  court,  followed  by 
Lady  IJudloij^li. 

Thcro  was  a  uninnur  of  uuivorsul  sympa- 
thy. 

''  Poor  Sir  Lionel !  Ho  has  boon  heart- 
Itrokoii,  and  the  joy  of  his  sou's  safety  is  too 
much." 

After  this  the  proceedings  soon  camo  to 
an  end. 

Edith  was  free! 

Dalton  tried  to  got  to  her,  but  in  his  woak- 
lU'sa  sank  u]>on  a  seat,  and  looked  imploring- 
ly at  his  daughter.  Seeing  this,  Dudleigli 
sjirang  to  his  assistaneo,  and  gave  his  arm. 
Loaning  hiiavily  ui)on  this,  Dalton  walked 
toward  Edith,  who  was  already  striving  to 
roi'ch  him,  and,  with  a  low  cry,  caught  her 
in  his  arms. 

Sir  Lionel  had  boon  taken  to  the  inn, 
whoro  Lady  Dudloigh  waited  on  him.  Aft- 
er some  tinui  ho  recovered  his  senses,  and 
began  to  rally  raiiitlly.  It  had  been  feared 
that  it  was  apoplexy,  but,  fortunately  for  the 


sutrerer,  it  tui'ued  out  to  bo  nothing  so  seri- 
ous as  that.  After  this  Lady  Dudloigh  was 
left  alone  with  her  hnsban<l. 

Ton  years  of  separation  lay  betwoeu  those 
two — a  separation  nndcrtakon  from  causes 
that  still  existed  to  iilionato  them  bi-yond 
the  hope  of  reconciliation.  Yot  tliero  w.as 
nuu'h  to  be  said;  and  Lady  Dndlcigh  had 
before  her  a  dark  and  solemn  jtnrposo. 

(In  the  next  day  Sir  Lioiud  was  able  to 
drive  out.  Lady  Dudloigh  soeujed  to  hav(( 
oonstitutod  herself  his  guardian.  Sir  Lionel's 
face  aiul  expression  had  changed.  The  easy, 
careless  boidiomio,  tho  placid  content,  the 
soroiu' joyousiu'ss,  that  had  once  character- 
ized him,  wore  goiu'.  In  tho  i))u:o  of  these 
there  camo  an  anxious,  watchful,  troubled 
look  -tho  look  of  a  mind  ill  at  e.a.se— tho 
furtive  glaiu'o,  tho  doiulcd  brow,  't  was  as 
though  in  tiiis  uu'oting  Latly  Dudloigh  had 
comminiicated  to  her  husband  a  ]>art  of  that 
''Xi>ression  which  prevailed  in  her  own  fact\ 

Sir  Lionel  seonu>d  like  a  prison(>r  who  is 
attended  by  an  over-vigilant  guard — one 
who  watches  all  his  movements,  and  fnuu 
whom  ho  can  not  escape.    As  ho  rolled  along 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


131 


in  his  carriage,  the  Black  Caro  of  the  poet 
Reeuii'd  seated  beside  him  iu  the  persou  of 
Lady  Dudk'if!;h. 

Wliile  Sir  Lionel  thus  recovered  from  tlie 
sudden  shock  which  he  hud  felt,  there  was 
another  who  had  endured  a  loufjer  and  se- 
verer course  of  suft'eriug,  and  wlio  had  ral- 
lied for  a  moment  when  his  presence  wiis  re- 
(|uired,  but  only  to  sink  back  into  a  relapse 
•worse  than  the  illness  from  which  he  had 
begun  to  recover.  Tliis  was  Frederick  Ual- 
tou,  who  had  crawled  from  his  bed  twice — - 
once  to  his  daughter's  prison,  and  once  to 
the  scene  of  her  trial.  But  the  exertion 
\/a8  too  much,  and  the  agitation  of  feel- 
ing to  which  he  had  been  subject  had  over- 
whelmed him.  Leaning  heavily  on  Dud- 
leigh,  and  also  on  P^dith,  he  was  taken  by 
these  two  to  his  carriage,  ami  thence  to  the 
inn;  but  here  he  could  walk  no  further.  It 
was  Dudleigh  who  had  to  carry  him  to  his 
room  and  lay  him  on  his  bed — and  Dudleigli, 
too,  who  would  intrust  to  no  other  person 
the  task  of  putting  his  i)rostrate  form  in 
thiit  bed.  Dudleigli's  own  father  was  lying 
in  the  same  house,  but  at  that  moment, 
whatever  were  his  motives,  Dalton  seemed 
to  have  stronger  claims  on  his  lilial  duty, 
and  Edith  had  to  wait  till  this  unlooktHl-for 
uurso  had  tenderly  placed  her  falhta-  in  his 
bed. 

The  doctor,  who  had  found  Sir  Lionel's 
ease  so  trilling,  shook  his  head  seriously  over 
Frederick  Dultoii.  Dudleigh  took  np  his 
station  in  that  room,  and  cared  for  the  pa- 
tient like  a  son.  The  day  i)assed,  and  the 
niglit,  and  tlie  next  morning,  luit  Dalton 
grew  no  better.  It  was  a  strange  stu])or 
which  aifected  liim,  not  like  paralysis,  but 
arising  rather  lVon>  exhaustion,  or  some  af- 
fection of  the  brain.  The  doctor  called  it 
e(uigestion.  He  lay  iu  a  kind  of  doze,  with- 
out sense  and  without  sutfering,  swallowing 
any  food  or  medicine  that  miglit  l)e  olb-red, 
but  never  noticing  any  tiling,  and  never  an- 
swering any  ([uestions.  His  eyes  were  elost'd 
at  all  times,  aiul  in  that  stupor  he  seemed  to 
be  ill  a  state  of  living  death. 

Etlith's  grief  was  )n'ot'oiind  ;  but  in  the 
mitlst  of  it  she  could  not  helji  feeling  won- 
der at  tlie  unexpected  jiart  which  Dudleigh 
was  perl'oMuing.  Who  was  he  tluit  he  should 
lake  so  large  a  part  in  the  care  of  her  fathcrf 
Yet  so  it  was ;  and  Dudleigh  Ht^iined  to  think 
of  iiothingand  sei^  nothing  but  thatold  man's 
wasted  and  ju'ostrate  form. 

F(U-  the  pres(Mit,  at  least,  de])arture  frmii 
the  iiiii  was  of  course  out  of  the  (juestiiui. 
Fdith's  position  was  a  very  ilistressing  one. 
livery  feeling  (d'  her  heart  impelled  lier  to  | 
be  present  at  her  father's  bedsidis  but  Dud- 
leigh was  present  at  that  same  bedside  ;  and 
bow  e(uil(l  she  aNsociatu  herself  with  him 
even  thi>reT  At  lirst  she  would  enter  the 
room,  and  sit  (|uietly  by  Ihm'  father's  bedside, 
and  on  such  oceasious  DuiUeigli  would  re- 


spectfully withdraw;  but  this  was  unpleas- 
ant, and  she  hardly  knew  what  to  do. 

Two  or  three  days  thus  passed,  and  on  the 
third  Dudleigh  requested  an  interview,  to 
iusk  her,  as  he  said,  something  about  "Mr. 
Wiggins" — for  this  was  the  name  by  which 
Mr.  Dalton  still  was  called.  This  request 
Edith  could  not  refuse. 

Dudleigh  entered  with  an  air  of  profound 
resjiect. 

"  Miss  Dalton,"  said  he,  laying  emi)hasis 
on  that  name,  "  nothing  would  induce  me  to 
intrude  upon  yon  but  my  anxiety  about  your 
father.  Deep  as  your  atl'ection  for  him  may 
be,  it  can  hardly  bo  greater  than  mine.  I 
would  gladly  lay  down  my  life  for  him.  At 
the  same  time,  I  understand  your  feelings, 
and  this  is  what  I  wish  to  speak  about.  I 
would  give  up  my  place  at  his  bedside  al- 
together if  you  wished  it,  and  you  should 
not  be  troubled  by  my  presenct^;  but  I  see 
that  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  be  sole 
nurse,  or  to  undertake  the  work  that  would 
be  re(|uired  of  you,  ami  that  your  own  atl'ee- 
tiou  for  him  would  impose  upon  you.  You 
yourself  are  not  strong,  and  you  must  take 
care  of  yourself  for  his  sake.  I  will  not, 
therefore,  give  np  to  yon  all  the  care  (d'yoiir 
father,  but  I  will  absent  myself  during  the 
afternoon,  and  you  will  then  have  exclusive 
care  of  him." 

Edith  bowed  without  a  word,  and  Dud- 
leigh withdrew. 

This  arraiig.'ment  was  kejit  up,  and  Edith 
scarcely  saw  Dudleigh  at  all.  She  knew, 
however,  that  his  care  for  her  father  was 
incessant  and  uninterrupted.  Every  thing 
that  could  possibly  be  nee<led  was  supplied  ; 
every  luxury  or  delicacy  that  could  be 
thought  of  was  ol)taine(l ;  and  not  (uily  wt-rti 
Lomhui  ])hysicians  constantly  coming  uj), 
but  from  the  notes  whi<  h  lay  around,  she 
judged  that  Duilleigh  kept  up  a  constant 
correspoudence  with  them  about  this  case. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

SIU   UONKI,  A.M>    HIS   "  KKKI'EU." 

SiK  liioNi:!,.  who  hatl  come  to  this  jilace 
with  the  face  that  indieiited  a  iiiind  at  peace, 
thus  found  himself  suildenly  coiilVoiited  by 
a  grim  phanttuii,  the  aspect  of  which  strucU 
terror  to  his  heiirt.  That  phantom  was 
drawn  up  from  a  past  which  he  usually  did 
not  care  to  remember.  Now,  however,  Iw 
could  not  forget  It.  There  was  one  by  his 
side  to  remind  him  of  it  always — one  who 
had  become  his  guard,  his  Jailer-  in  fact,  his 
keeper  -a  word  which  signilies  better  than 
any  other  the  attitude  which  was  assiiined 
by  Lady  Dudleigh.  For  the  feeling  which 
Sir  Lionel  had  toward  her  was  precisely  like 
that  which  the  lunatic  has  toward  his  keep- 
er, the  feeling   that   this  one   is    watching 


132 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


night  and  clay,  and  never  relaxes  the  terri- 
ble stare  of  those  vigilant  eyes.  There  are 
those  who  on  being  thus  watched  would 
grow  mad  ;  and  Sir  Lionel  had  this  in  addi- 
tion to  his  other  terrors — this  climax  of  them 


He  took  one  glance,  and  then  a  deep  oath 
escaped  him. 

In  the  carriage  was  Lady  Dudleigh. 

How  she  could  have  detected  his  flight  ho 
could  not  imagine,  nor  did  he  now  care.    She 


all,  that  upon  him  there  was  always  the  mad-  had  detected  it,  and  had  followed  at  once  to 
dening  glare  of  his  "  keeper's"  eyes.  Terri-  [  circumvent  him.  She  must  have  gone  down 
ble  eyes  were  they  to  him,  most  terrible —  1  the  front  stairs,  out  of  the  iVont-door,  and 
eyes  which  he  dared  not  encounter.  They  \  reached  the  carriage  before  him.  And  there 
were  the  eyes  of  his  wife — a  woman  most  in-  |  she  was !  Those  hateful  eyes  were  fixed  on 
jured ;  and  her  gaze  reminded  him  always  him — he  felt  the  horrid  stan — ho  cowered 
of  a  past  full  of  horror.     That  gaze  he  could   beneath  it.     He  walked  tow.nrd  her. 

"  I  thought  I  would  go  oul  too,"  said  she. 

Sir  Lionel  said  not  a  word.     Ho  felt  too 


not  encounter.     He  knew  without  looking 
at  it  what  it  meant.     He  felt  it  on  him. 
There  were  times  when  it  made  his  flesh  !  much  ashamed  to  turn  back  now,  and  was 
crawl,  nor  could  he  venture  to  face  it.  \  too  politic  to  allow  her  to  see  any  open  signs 

A  few  days  of  this  reduced  him  to  a  state  '  that  he  was  in  full  tlight;  so  he  quietly  got 


of  abject  misery.  He  began  to  fear  that  ho 
was  really  growing  mad.  In  that  case  ho 
would  bo  a  fit  subject  for  a  "  keeper."  He 
longed  with  unutterable  longing  to  throw 
oft'  this  terrible  restraint;  but  he  could  not 
and  dared  not.  That  woman,  that  "  keep- 
er," wielded  over  him  a  power  which  he 
knew  and  felt,  and  dared  not  defy.  It  was 
the  power  that  arises  from  the  knowledge 
of  secrets  of  life  and  death,  and  her  knowl- 
edge placed  his  life  in  her  hands. 

This  woman  was  inflexible  and  inoxora- 


into  the  carriage,  and  took  his  seat  by  her 
side. 

Whipping  up  the  horses,  he  drove  thoni 
at  a  headlong  rate  of  speed  out  through  the 
streets  into  the  country.  His  whole  soul 
was  full  of  mad  fury.  Kage  and  disappoint- 
ment together  excited  his  brain  to  madness; 
and  the  fierce  rush  of  the  impetuous  sti^eds 
was  in  accordance  with  the  excitement  of 
his  mind.  At  length  the  horses  themselves 
grew  fatigued,  and  slackened  their  pace. 
Sir  Lionel  still  tried  to  iirge  them  forward, 


ble.     She  had  suflered  so  much  that  she  had    but  in  vain,  and  at  last  he  flung  down  the 
no  pity  for  his  present  suft'erings.     These    whip  with  a  curse. 


"I'll  not  stand  this  any  longer!"  ]w  cried, 
vehemently,  addressing  his  "  keeper,"  but 
not  looking  at  her. 
"Whatr  said  she. 
could  remember  the  time  when  she  was  ai      "Tiiis  stylo  of  being  dogged  and  tracked 
fair  and  gentle  young  girl,  with  her  will  all '  and  watched." 
subject  to  his ;  then  a  loving  bride  with  no  j      "  You  allude  to  me,  I  suppose,"  said  Lady 


seemed  trivial  to  her.  She  showed  a  grand, 
strong,  self-sufticieut  nature,  which  nuade 
her  his  superior,  and  put  her  above  the  reach 
of  any  influences  that  he  might  bring.     He  j 


thought  apart  from  him ;  b  it  now  years  of 
suft'ering  and  self-disciplimj  had  transform- 
ed her  to  this,  and  she  came  back  to  him  an 
inexorable  Fate,  an  avenging  Nemesis. 

Yet  Sir  Lionel  did  not  give  up  all  hope. 
He  could  not  drive  her  away.     He  could  not 


Dudleigh.  "At  any  rate,  you  must  allow 
that  it  is  better  to  lie  tracked,  as  you  call  it, 
by  me,  than  by  the  ofticers  of  the  law." 

"  I  don't  car(>,"  growled  Sir  Lionel,  gath- 
ering courage.  "  I'll  not  stand  this  style  of 
thing  any  longer.     I'll  not  let  them  have  it 


fly  away  from  her,  for  her  watch  was  too  '  all  their  own  wiiy." 

vigilant;  but  he  hoped  for  some  elianre  of        "1  don't  see  what  you  can  do,"  said  Lady 

secret  flight  in  whicli,  if  he  oiue  escajied,  he    Dudleigh,  (juietly. 

might  Hud  his  way  to  the  Continent.     With  |      "Do!"  cried  Sir  Lionel,  in  a  still  more 

Honuifhing  of  that  cunning  which  character- '  violent  tone — "do!     I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 

izes  the  insane,  and  which,  jierhajis,  is  born  '  do.     I'll  tight  it  out." 


of  the  presence  of  a  "keeper,"  Sir  Li(uiel 
watched  his  ojiportunity,  and  one  day  near- 
ly succeeded  in  etVecting  his  desire. 

That  day  Lady  Dudleigh  was  in  her  broth- 
er's room.  Sir  Lionel  had  waited  for  tills, 
and  had  made  his  iirejiarations.     When  she 


"Fight!" 

"  Yes,"  cried  Sir  Lionel,  with  an  oath. 
"  Every  one  of  you — every  one.  Every  one 
without  a  single  exception.  Oil,  you  needn't 
think  tiiiit  I'm  afraid.  I've  thought  it  all 
over.     You're  all  under  my  power.     Yes — 


had  been  gone  for  a  few  minutes,  he  stole  ha,  ha,  ha!  that's  it.  I'vt*  said  if,  and  I 
softly  out  of  his  room,  jiassed  stealthily  ,  say  what  I  mean.  Y(ui  thought  that  I  was 
down  the  back  stairs  of  the  iuu,  and  going  under  .voiir  power.  Your  power!  Ha,  Ini, 
out  of  the  back-door,  reached  the  rear  of  the  I  ha!  That's  goo<l.  Why,  you're  all  under 
house.  Here  there  wjis  a  yard,  and  a  gate  [  mine — every  one  of  you." 
that  led  out  to  a  road  at  the  end  of  the  I  Sir  Lionel  spoke  wihlly  and  vehemently, 
liousc.  A  carriage  had  been  in  waiting  here  1  in  that  tone  of  fevtMish  excitement  which 
for  about  an  hour.  Sir  Lionel  hurrit'd  across  I  nuirks  a  madman.  It  may  have  been  the 
the  yard,  passed  through  the  gate,  and  looked  '  inlluenc(>  of  his  "  keeper,"  or  it  may  have 
for  the  carriage,  1  been  the  dawniugs  of  actual  iusunity. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


133 


As  for  Lady  Dndleigli,  slio  did  not  lose 
oue  particle  of  her  cold  -  bloodcduess.  She 
siuiplv  said,  iu  the  same  toue, 

"  How  f" 

"Howt  Ha,  ha!  Do  you  think  I'm  go- 
ing to  tell  you  T  That's  my  secret.  But  stop. 
Yes;  I  don't  care.  I'd  just  as  soon  tell  as 
not.  You  can't  escape,  not  one  of  you,  un- 
less yon  all  fly  at  once  to  the  Continent,  or 
to  America,  or,  better  yet,  back  to  Botanv 
Bay.  There  ym'll  bo  safe.  F'  flyllly! 
or  else,"  he  suddenly  added,  iu  .«,  gloomy 
tone,  "you'll  all  die  on  the  gallows!  every 
one  of  yon,  on  the  gallows!  Ha,  lia,  ha! 
swinging  on  the  gallows!  the  beautiful  gal- 
lows!" 

Lady  Dudleigh  disregarded  the  wildness 
of  his  tone,  or  perhaps  she  cnose  to  take 
advantage  of  it,  thinking  that  in  his  excite- 
ment he  might  disclose  his  thoughts  the 
more  unguardedly. 

"You  can  do  nothing,"  she  said. 

"Can't  I,  though?"  retorted  Sir  Lionel. 
"  You  wait.     First,  there's  Dalton." 

"What  can  you  do  with  him  ?" 

"  Arrest  him,"  said  Sir  Lionel.  "  What  is 
hoT  An  outlaw  !  An  escaped  convict!  He 
lives  under  an  assumed  name.  He  must  go 
back  to  Botany  Bay — that  is,  if  he  isn't 
lianged.  And  then  there's  that  pale-fa«'ed 
devil  of  a  daughter  with  her  terrible  eyes." 
He  paused. 

"  What  can  you  do  to  hcrf" 

"Her!  Arrest  her  too,"  cried  Sir  Lionel. 
"  She  nnirdered  my  boy — my  son — my  Leon. 
She  must  be  hanged.  You  shall  not  save 
lier  by  this  trick.  Xo!  she  must  be  hanged, 
like  her  cursed  father." 

A  shudder  passed  tiirough  Lady  Dudleigh. 

Sir  Lionel  did  not  notice  it.  He  was  too 
nuich  taken  up  with  his  own  vengeful 
thoughts. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  and  tliere's  that  scoun- 
drel Reginald." 

"Keginald!"'  cried  Lady  Dudleigh,  in  a 
stern  voice.     "Why  do  you  mention  himf 

"Oh,  In^'s  one  of  tile  same  gang,"  cried  Sir 
Lionel.  "  He's  jdaying  their  giinie.  He  is 
siding  against  his  father,  as  he  always  did, 
and  with  his  brother's  nninlerers.  He  shall 
not  escai>e.  ]  will  avenge  Leon's  di'ath  on 
all  of  you  ;  and  as  l\>r  him.  he  shall  sutler!" 

It  was  with  a  strong  etVort  that  Lady  Dud- 
leigh reslraine<l  herself.  But  she  succeeded 
in  doing  so,  ami  said,  simplv,  as  before, 

"  How  r 

"Arrest  him!"  cried  Sir  Lionel.  "  Arrest 
him  too.  He  is  guilty  of  ])eriury  ;  and  if 
ht«  doesn't  hang  for  it,  he'll  go  back  again  to 
Botany  Hay  with  that  scoundrel  with  whom 
lie  si<les  against  nu'— his  own  father— and 
against  his  brother." 

"Are  there  any  more?"  oskod  Ludy  Dud- 
leigh, as  Sir  Lionel  ended, 

"MoH' !     Vcs,"  he  said. 

"  Who  r" 


"  You !"  shouted  Sir  Lionel,  with  a  voice 
of  indescribable  hate  and  ferocity.  He  turn- 
ed as  he  spoke,  aud  stared  at  her.  His  wild 
eyes,  however,  met  the  calm,  cold,  steady 
glance  of  those  of  his  "  keeper,"  and  they  fell 
before  it.  He  seized  the  whii>  and  began  to 
lash  the  horses,  crying  as  he  did  so,  "  You  ! 
yes,  you !  you !  most  of  all !" 

"  What  can  you  do  to  mo  ?"  asked  Lady 
Dudleigh. 

I  "  You  T  Arrest  you." 
"  What  have  I  done !" 
I  "  You !  You  have  done  every  thing.  You 
have  aided  and  abetted  the  escape  of  an  out- 
law. You  have  assisted  him  in  his  nefari- 
ous occupation  of  Dalton  Hall.  You  have 
aided  and  abetted  him  in  the  imprisonment 
of  Dalton's  brat.  You  have  aided  and  abetted 
him  in  the  murder  of  my  boy  Leon.  You 
have—" 

"Stop!"  cried  Lady  Dudleigh,  in  a  stern, 
commanding  voice.  "  You  have  been  a  vil- 
lain always,  but  you  have  never  been  sti 
outspoken.  Who  are  yon  ?  Do  you  know 
what  liapi)ened  ten  years  ago  ?" 

"What?"   asked   Sir  Lionel.      "Do   you 
mean  Dalton's  forgery,  aud  hisjussassinatiou 
of  that— that  banker  fellow  ?" 
j      Liuly  Dudleigh  smiled  grimly. 
I      "I  am  glad  that  you  sai<l  that,"  said  she. 
j  "  You  remove  n»y  last  scruple.    My  brother's 
wrongs  have  well-nigh  maddened  me ;  but 
I  have  hesitated  to  bear  witness  against  my 
I  husband,  aud  the  father  of  my  children.     I 
I  shall  remember  this,  and  it  will  sustain  me 
when  I  bear  my  witness  against  you  in  a 
court  of  law." 

I  "Mef"  said  Sir  Lionel.  "Me?  Wit- 
ness against  me?  You  can  not.  No  oue  will 
believe  you." 

"  It  will  not  bo  only  your  wift>,"  said  she, 
"though  that  will  Ix;  something,  but  your 
own  self,  with  your  own  hand." 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 
"  I  mean  what  you  know  very  well — your 
letter  which  you  wrote  to  Frederick,  inclos- 
ing your  forged  check." 

1  "1  never  forged  a  check,  and  I  never 
'  wrote  a  letter  inclosing  one!"  cried  Sir  Li- 
onel. "Dalton  forged  that  letter  himself, 
I  if  there  is  such  a  letter.  He  was  an  jiccmhu- 
I  ])lished  forger,  and  has  sulVered  for  it." 

"  The  letter  is  your  own,"  said  La<ly  Dud- 
leigh, "aud  I  can  swear  to  it.'' 

"No  one  will  believe  you,"  cried  Sir  Li- 
onel.    "You  shall  be  arrested  for  perjury." 
Lady  Dudleigh  gave  another  grim  smile, 
and  then  she  added,  "There  is  that  Multtiie 
croKs.     Yon  forget  that." 

"What  Maltese  cross?"  said  Sir  Liiuiel. 
"I  never  had  one.  That  wasn't  mine;  it 
was  Dalton's." 

"  Hut  1  can  swear  in  a  court  of  law,"  said 
La<ly  Dudleigh,  "th.it  this  Maltese  cross  was 
yoiiiH,  and  that  it  was  given  to  you  by  me  as 
a  birthday  gift." 


Hi 


134 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"  No  one  will  believe  you !"  cried  Sir  Li- 
onel ;  " no  one  will  believe  yon!" 

"Why  not?  Will  they  refuse  the  oath 
of  Lady  Dudleigh  f" 

"  I  can  show  them  that  you  are  insane," 
said  Sir  Lionel,  with  a  chuckle  at  the  idea, 
which  seemed  to  him  like  a  sudden  inspira- 
tion. 

"  You  will  not  bo  able  to  show  that  Regi- 
nald is  insane,"  said  she. 

"Kfginaldr 

"  Yes,  Koginald,"  repeated  Lady  Dudleigh. 
"  Reginald  knows  that  Maltese  cross,  and 
knows  when  I  gave  it  to  you.  H(!  too  will 
be  ready  to  swear  to  that  in  a  court  of  law 
whenever  I  tell  liim  that  he  may  do  so." 

"  Reginald  ?"  said  Sir  Lionel,  in  a  gloomy 
A'oice.     "  Why,  he  was — a  child  then." 

"  He  was  sixteen  years  old,"  said  Lady 
Dudleigh. 

This  mention  of  Reginald  seemed  to  crush 
Sir  Lionel.  He  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 
Evidently  he  had  not  been  prej)ared  for  this 
in  his  plans  for  what  he  called  a  "  light." 
He  sat  in  moody  silence  therefore.  Once  or 
twice  he  stole  a  furtive  glance  at  her,  and 
threw  upon  her  a  look  which  she  did  not 
see.  It  was  a  look  full  of  hate  and  malig- 
nancy, while  at  the  same  time  there  was 
an  expression  of  satisfaction  in  his  face,  as 
thongh  he  had  conceived  some  new  plan, 
which  he  intended  to  keep  a  secret  all  to 
himself. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

LADY  DUDLEIUH'S  DKCISION. 

During  the  remainder  of  that  drive  noth- 
ing was  said  by  either.  Sir  Lionel  ha<l  his 
own  thoughts,  which,  whatever  they  were, 
appeared  to  give  him  a  certain  satisfaction, 
and  his  brow  was  more  unclouded  when  they 
reached  the  inn  than  it  had  been  ever  since 
tlui  day  of  the  trial.  Evidently  the  new  de- 
sign which  he  had  conceived,  and  which  re- 
nuiined  unuttered  in  his  mind,  was  very  sat- 
isfactory to  him. 

That  evening  lie  himself  began  the  con- 
versation with  Lady  Dudl(?igh,a  tiling  wlii<di 
he  had  not  before  done. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  said  he,  "for  you  to 
carry  on  your  own  ]ilans.  You  may  carrj' 
them  on  and  welcome.  I  won't  prevent 
yon  ;  in  fact,  I  can't.  It's  no  usti  to  deny  it ; 
I'm  in  your  power.  You're  determined  to 
crush  nie,  and  I  must  be  crushed,  I  suppose. 
You  are  going  to  show  to  the  world  the 
Ktrange  spectacle  of  a  wii'e  and  a  son  rising 
up  against  a  husband  ami  fatlier,  and  sw(>ar- 
ing  his  life  away.  You  will  lead  on,  and 
Reginald  will  follow.  This  is  the  educa- 
tion that  you  have  given  him — it  is  to  end 
ill  ]>arricide.  Very  well;  I  must  submit. 
Wife,  slay  your  husband!  mother,  lead  your 
son  to  piuricide!     Of  course  you  comfort 


your  conscience  with  the  plea  that  yon  are 
doing  justice.  In  the  French  Revolution 
there  were  wives  who  denounced  their  hus- 
bands, and  sons  who  denounced  their  fathers, 
in  the  name  of  '  humanity,'  and  for  the  good 
of  the  republic.  So  go  on.  See  that  justice 
be  done.  Come  on  yourself  to  assassinate 
your  husband,  and  bring  on  your  jiarricido! 
Take  sides  with  those  Avho  have  murdered 
your  son — the  son  whom  you  bore  to  me, 
and  once  loved!  Unsex  yourself,  and  be- 
come a  Fury !  It  is  useless  for  me  to  make 
resistance,  I  suppose;  and  yet,  woman!  wife! 
mother!  let  me  tell  you  that  on  the  day 
when  you  attempt  to  do  these  things,  and 
when  your  son  stands  by  your  side  to  help 
you,  there  will  go  up  a  cry  of  horror  against 
you  from  outraged  linmanity !" 

At  this  Lady  Dndl(;igh  looked  at  him, 
who,  as  usual,  averted  his  eyes;  but  siie 
made  no  reply. 

"Ibing  him  on!"  said  Sir  Lionel — "your 
son  —  my  son  —  the  iiarricide  !  Do  your 
worst.  But  at  the  same  time  allow  me  to 
infoi-m  yon,  in  the  mildest  manner  in  the 
Avorld,  that  if  I  am  doomed,  there  is  no  rea- 
son why  I  should  go  mad  in  this  infernal 
hole.  What  is  more,  I  do  not  intend  to 
stay  here  one  single  day  longer.  I'm  not 
going  to  run  away.  That  is  imiio-ssible ; 
yon  keep  too  sharp  a  look-out  altogether. 
I'm  simply  going  away  from  this  place  of 
horrors,  and  I  rather  think  I'll  go  home.  I'll 
go  home — yes,  home.  Home  is  the  place  for 
me — Dudleigh  Manor,  where  I  first  took  you, 
my  tnie  wift; — that  is  the  place  for  me  to  be 
in  when  you  come  to  nw,  you  and  your  son, 
to  hand  me  ovt^r,  .Jndas-like,  to  death.  Yes, 
I'm  going  home,  and  if  you  choose  to  accom- 
pany me,  w  by,  all  that  I  can  say  is,  I'll  have 
to  bear  it." 

"I'll  go," said  Lady  Dudleigh, laconically. 
"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  "quite  a 
true  wife  ;  like  Ruth  and  Naomi.  Whither 
thou  goest,  I  will  go.  Ycni  see,  I'm  up  in 
my  Bible.  Well,  as  I  said,  I  can  not  ])re- 
vent  yon,  and  I  siippitse  there  is  no  need  for 
me  to  tell  you  to  get  ready." 

Whetlier  under  thes(\  bitter  taunts  Lady 
DiiiUeigh  writhed  or  not  did  not  at  all  ap- 
I  pear.     She  seemed  as  <!ool  and  calm  as  ever. 
'  Perhaps  she  li;id  so  schooled  her  nature  that 
she  was  able  to  repress  all  outward  signs  of 
emotion,  or  perhaps  she  had  undergone  so 
much  that  a  taunt  could  h.nve  no  sting  for 
I  her, or  jierhaps  slit^  had  already  contemidated 
I  and  familiarized  herself  with  all  Ihese  jjossi- 
!  ble  views  of  her  conduct  to  such  an  extent 
that  the  mention  of  tiiem  created  no  emo- 
tion.    At   any  rate,  whatever  she  felt,  Sir 
'  Lionel  saw  notliing. 

I  Having  discharged  this  shot,  Sir  Lionel 
1  went  to  his  desk,  and  taking  <Mit  writing 
,  materials,  began  to  write  a  letter.  He  wrote 
I  rajtidly,  and  once  or  twice  glanced  furtively 
i  at  Lady  Dudleigii,  as  though  he  wivs  fearful 


tbJ 
thJ 
lei] 
no] 
at 

fo1(k 

iinil 

isfiil 

lei<. 

trii4 

by 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


135 


tliat  she  might  overlook  his  writiiig.  But 
there  was  no  danger  of  that.  Lady  Diid- 
Iiiigli  did  not  move  from  her  place.  She  did 
not  seem  to  he  aware  that  he  was  writing 
at  all. 

At  length  Sir  Lionel  finished,  and  then  he 
folded,  sealed,  and  addressed  the  letter.  He 
finished  this  task  with  a  face  of  supreme  sat- 
isfaction, and  stole  a  look  toward  Lady  Dud- 
leigh,  in  which  there  was  a  certain  cnnning 
triumph  very  visible,  though  it  was  not  seen 
by  the  one  at  whom  it  was  directed. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  waving  the  letter 
somewhat  ostentationsly,  and  speaking  in  a 
formal  tone,  in  which  tliero  was  an  evident 
sneer — '•  and  now.  Lady  Dudleigh,  I  have 
the  honor  to  inform  yon  that  I  intend  to  go 
out  and  post  this  letter.  May  I  have  the 
honor  of  your  company  as  far  as  the  post- 
office,  and  back  ?" 

Lady  Dudleigh  rose  in  silence,  and  hastily 
throwing  on  her  things,  prepared  to  follow 
him.  Sir  Lionel  waited  with  mocking  po- 
liteness, opened  the  door  for  her  to  pass  out 
first,  and  then  in  company  with  her  went  to 
the  jmst-offlce,  where  he  mailed  the  letter, 
and  returned  with  the  smile  of  satisfacti(m 
still  upon  his  face. 

Early  on  the  next  morning  Lady  Dudleigh 
saw  her  son.  He  had  watched  all  tliat  niglit 
by  Dalton's  bedside,  and  seemed  pale  and 
exhausted, 

"Keginald,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh,  "Sir 
Lionel  is  going  away." 

"  Going  away  ?"  repeated  Reginald,  ab- 
sently. 

"Yes;  back  to  Dudleigh  Manor." 

Reginald  looked  in([niringly  at  his  moth- 
er, but  said  nothing. 

"I  intend,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh,  "to  go 
with  him." 

"Yonf 

"  Yes." 

Reginald  looked  at  her  mournfully. 

"  Have  you  done  any  thing  with  him  yet  V 
lie  asked. 

Lady  DufUeigh  shook  her  head. 

"  Do  you  expect  to  do  any  thing  ?" 

"  I  do." 

"  I'm  afraid  yon  will  be  disai)i)ointed." 

"I  hope  not.  I  have  at  least  gained  a 
bold  upon  )iiin,an(l  I  have  certainly  worked 
upon  his  fears.  If  I  remain  willi  liiin  now  I 
hope  in  time  to  extort  from  him  that  <dnfes- 
sion  which  will  save  us  all  from  an  addition- 
al sorrow  ;  one  perhaps  as  terrible  as  any  we 
Inive  ever  known,  if  not  tn'cn  more  so." 

"Confession!"  repeat«'d  Reginald.  "How 
is  that  possible  if  He  will  never  confess — 
inner.  If  he  has  remained  silent  so  long, 
and  has  not  been  moved  by  the  thought  of 
all  tliat  he  has  done,  what  possible  tiling  can 
move  him  ?  Notliing  but  the  actual  jtresence 
of  the  law.     Nothing  but  force." 

"Well,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh, "  it  ia  worth 
trying — the  other  alternative  is  too  terrible 


jnst  yet.  I  hope  to  work  upon  his  fears.  I 
hope  to  persnade  him  to  confess,  and  fly  from 
the  country  to  some  place  of  safety.  Fred- 
erick must  be  righted  at  all  Intzards,  and  I 
hope  to  show  this  so  i)lainly  to  .Sir  Lionel 
thiit  he  will  acquiesce  in  my  projMisal,  con- 
fess all,  save  Frederick,  and  then  fly  to  some 
place  where  he  may  be  safe.  If  not,  why, 
then  we  can  try  the  last  resort.  But  oh, 
Reginald,  do  yon  not  see  how  terrible  that 
last  resort  is  T — I  against  my  husband,  you 
against  your  father — both  of  us  bringing 
him  to  the  gallows!  It  is  only  the  intolera- 
ble sense  of  Frederick's  long-sufferings  that 
can  make  me  think  of  doing  so  terribh?  a 
thing.  But  Frederick  is  even  now  in  dan- 
ger. He  must  be  saved;  and  the  question 
is  between  the  innocent  and  the  guilty.  I 
am  strong  enough  to  decide  ditterently  from 
what  I  did  ten  years  ago." 

"Oil,  I  know — I  feel  it  all,  mother  dear," 
said  Regiiiiild ;  "  but  at  the  same  time  I 
don't  like  the  idea  of  your  going  away  with 
him— alone." 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  your  putting  your- 
self in  his  power." 

"  His  power  V 

"  Yes,  in  Dudleigh  Manor,  or  any  other 
place.  He  is  desperate.  H«*  will  not  shrink 
from  any  thing  that  he  thinks  may  save  liim 
from  this  danger.  You  will  be  his  chief  dan- 
ger :  he  may  think  of  getting  rid  of  it.  He  is 
unscrupulous,  and  would  stop  at  nothing." 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,  he  may  be  dt>sperate,  but 
what  can  he  possibly  do  ?  Dudleigh  Manor 
is  in  the  world.  It  is  not  in  soiim  remote 
idace  where  the  master  is  superior  to  law. 
lie  can  do  no  more  harm  there  than  he  can 
here." 

"The  man,"  said  Reginald,  "who  for  all 
these  years  has  outraged  honor  and  Justice 
and  truth,  and  lias  stifled  his  own  conscience 
for  tlie  sake  of  liis  comfort,  must  by  tliis 
time  be  familiar  with  desperate  det^ls,  and 
be  callable  of  any  criiin\  I  am  afraid,  moth- 
er dear,  for  you  to  trust  yourst^lf  with  him," 

"Reginald,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh,  "you 
speak  as  tjioiigh  1  weni  a  child  or  a  schoid- 
girj.  Does  he  s""iii  now  as  though  he  could 
harm  me,  or  do  I  seem  to  be  out!  who  can 
easily  be  jtiit  down  ?  Would  you  bo  afraid 
to  go  with  him  F" 

"  I — afraid '  Tliat  is  the  very  thing  that 
I  wish  to  pro])ose." 

"But  you  could  not  possibly  have  that 
influence  over  him  which  I  have.  You  might 
threaten,  easily  enongli,  and<'oine  to  an  open 
rupture,  but  that  is  what  I  wish  to  avoid,  I 
wish  to  firing  him  to  a  confession,  not  so 
much  by  <lirect  threats  as  liy  various  coii- 
;  straining  moral  infiiienees," 
i  "Oh,  as  to  that."  said  Reginald,  "I  have 
no  doubt  that  you  will  do  far  better  than  I 
can;  but  at  the  same  time  I  can  not  get  rid 
of  a  fear  about  your  safety." 


.1 


136 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


"  And  do  you  really  tbiiik,  Reginald,  that  I 
I  would  bo  less  safe  than  you  !  or,  from  what : 
you  know  of  me,  should  you  HUjipose  that  1 1 
liave  much  of  thiit  woman's  weakness  about ' 
lue  which  might  make  mo  an  easy  prey  to  i 
one  who  wished  to  do  me  harmf  ! 

"  I  know  well  what  you  are,  mother  dear," 
said  Reginald,  taking  her  hand  tenderly  in  i 
both  of  his.  "  You  have  the  tenderness  of  a 
woman  and  the  courage  of  a  man ;  but  still 
I  feel  uneasy.  At  any  rate,  promise  mo  one 
thing.  You  will  let  me  know  what  you  aro 
doing." 

"  1  do  not  promise  to  write  regularly,"  said 
Lady  Dudleigh,  "  but  I  do  promise  to  write 
the  moment  that  any  thing  happens  worth 
writing  aV)out." 

"And  if  you  aro  ill,  or  in  danger?"  said 
Reginald,  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  then,  of  course  I  shall  write  at  once. 
Hut  now  I  nuist  go.  I  shall  not  see  you  agaiu 
for  some  time.     Good-by." 

Lady  Dudleigh  kissed  her  son  tenderly  as 
she  said  this,  and  left  him,  and  Reginald  re- 
turned to  his  place  by  Frederick  Dalton's 
bedside.  I 

That  same  day,  shortly  after  this  inter- 1 
view.  Sir  Lionel  and  Lady  Dudleigh  drove 
away  from  the  inn,  en  route  for  Dudleigh  | 
Manor. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

LADY  DUDLEIGH  IS  SHOWN  TO  HER  ROOM. 

After  driving  for  about  a  mile  Sir  Lionel 
and  Lady  Dndleigh  took  the  train,  securing 
a  compartment  to  thenrselves. 

During  this  part  of  the  journey  Sir  Lionel's 
face  lost  much  of  that  gloom  which  of  late 
had  pervaded  it,  and  assinned  an  expres- 
sion which  was  less  dismal,  thongh  not 
ipiite  like  the  old  one.  The  old  look  was 
one  of  serene  and  i)lacid  content,  an  air  of 
animal  comfort,  and  of  easy-going  self-in- 
dulgence ;  but  now  the  exju'cssion  was  more 
restless  and  excited.  There  was  a  certain 
knowing  look — a  leer  of  triumi)hant  <Mni- 
ning — combined  with  a  tendency  to  chuckle 
over  some  secret  purpose  which  no  on*'  else 
knew.  Together  with  this  there  was  inces- 
sant restlessness ;  ho  apjieared  perpetually 
on  the  look-out,  as  though  dreading  discov- 
ery ;  and  he  alternated  between  «'xultant 
nods  of  his  head,  with  knowing  winks  at 
vacancy,  and  sudden  sharj)  furtive  glances 
at  his  companion.  Changed  as  Sir  Lionel's 
mood  was,  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  tht; 
change  was  for  the  better.  It  would  have 
been  obvious  even  to  a  more  superficial  ob- 
server than  that  vigilant  "keeper"  who  ac- 
companied him  that  Sir  Lioiu'l  had  lost  his 
self-poisi^,  aiul  was  in  rather  a  dangerous 
way.  Lady  Du«lleigh  must  have  noticed 
this;  but  it  made  no  ditl'erence  in  her,  save 
that  there  was  perhaps  a  stonier  lustre  in 


her  eyes  as  she  turned  them  upon  him,  and 
a  sliarper  vigilance  in  her  attitude. 

In  this  way  they  rode  on  for  several 
hours ;  and  whatever  Sir  Lionel's  j)lans 
might  have  been,  they  certainly  did  not  in- 
volve any  action  during  tho  journey.  Had 
he  been  sufficiently  violent  he  might  have 
made  an  assault  upon  his  companion  in  tho 
seclusion  of  that  compartment,  and  eftectu- 
ally  prevented  any  trouble  ever  arising  to 
him  from  her.  He  might  have  done  this, 
and  made  good  his  escape  in  tho  confusion 
of  S(mie  station.  But  no  such  attempt  was 
made ;  and  so  in  duo  time  they  reached  the 
place  where  they  were  to  get  out. 

"This  is  the  nearest  station  to  Dudleigh 
Manor,"  said  Sir  Lionel,  gayly.  "  This  road 
has  been  made  since  your  time." 

Lady  Dndleigh  said  nothing,  but  looked 
around.  She  saw  nothing  thiit  was  familiar. 
A  neat  wayside  station,  with  the  usual  plat- 
form, was  nearest ;  and  beyond  this  arose 
trees  which  concealed  the  view  on  one  side, 
while  ou  the  other  there  were  fields  and 
hedges,  and  ono  or  two  houses  in  the  dis- 
tance. It  was  a  conunonplace  scene,  in  a 
level  sort  of  country,  and  Lady  Dudleigh, 
after  ono  short  survey,  thought  no  more 
about  it.  It  was  just  like  any  other  way- 
sido  station. 

A  conuuon  -  looking  hack,  with  a  rather 
ill-dressed  driver,  was  waiting,  and  toward 
this  Sir  Licuiel  walked. 

"  This,"  said  he,  "  is  tho  Dudleigh  coach. 
It  isn't  so  grand  an  affair  as  it  used  to  be ; 
but  my  nutans  have  dwindled  a  good  deal 
since  your  day,  you  know,  and  I  have  to 
economize — yes — ha,  ha,  ha! — economize — 
queer  thing  too,  isn't  it  ?  Economizing — 
ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Sir  Lionel's  somewhat  flighty  manner  was 
not  at  all  congenial  to  Lady  Dudleigh,  and 
she  treated  him  as  the  vigilant  "  keejier"  al- 
ways treats  his  flighty  prisoner — that  is, 
with  silent  patience  and  persistent  watch- 
fulness. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  both  seated 
inside  the  coach,  and  were  driving  away. 
The  coach  was  a  gloomy  one,  with  windows 
only  in  the  doors.  The  rest  was  solid  wood- 
work. These  windows  in  the  doors  were 
snuill,  and  when  let  down  were  scarcely  large 
enough  for  one  to  put  his  head  through. 
When  sifting  down  it  was  impossible  for 
Lady  Dndleigh  to  see  the  road.  She  could 
'  see  nothing  but  the  tops  of  the  trees,  be- 
tween which  tho  sky  apjteared  occasionally. 
,  She  saw  that  she  was  driving  along  a  road 
'  which  was  shaded  with  trees  on  both  sides; 
j  but  more  than  this  she  could  not  see. 

They  drove  for  abiuit  an  hour  at  a  moder- 
ate i)ace,  and  during  this  time  Sir  Liomd  jtre- 
served  fliat  same  peculiar  demeanor  which 
'  has  already  been  described,  while  Lady  Dud- 
j  leigh  maiutained  her  usual  silent  watchful- 
ness. 


V(l 
leil 

leil 

iy| 

the 
So(| 
ThI 
Sir! 

ty, 

his  I 

buti 

cd 

11 

leigj 

tire  I 

was  I 

thoiJ 

l)laii| 

l>uih 

wen 

door 

Htan( 

and 

dene 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


137 


At  length  thoy  stopped  for  a  moment. 
Voices  sonnded  outHide,  and  tlu-n  Lady  Dud- 
]{'\'^h  saw  that  she  was  passing  tlirough  a 
gateway.  Thiuliiiig  that  this  was  Dud- 
leigh  Manor,  she  made  no  remark,  but  calm- 
ly awaited  the  time  when  she  should  reach 
the  house,  Siie  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 
Sooner  than  she  expected  the  coach  stopped. 
The  driver  got  down  and  opened  the  door. 
Hir  Lionel  sprang  out  with  surprising  agili- 
ty, and  held  out  his  hand  politely  to  assist 
his  companion.  She  did  not  accept  his  offer, 
but  stepped  out  without  assistance,  and  look- 
ed arouiul. 

To  her  surprise,  the  place  was  not  Dud- 
leigh  Manor  at  all,  but  one  which  was  en- 
tirely different,  and  quite  unfamiliar.  It 
was  a  brick  house  of  no  very  great  size, 
though  larger  than  most  jjrivate  houses,  of 
plain  exterior,  and  with  the  air  of  a  public 
l)uilding  of  some  sort.  The  grounds  about 
were  stiff  and  formal  and  forbidding.  The 
door  was  open,  and  one  or  two  men  were 
standing  there.  It  did  not  look  like  an  inn, 
and  yet  it  certainly  was  not  a  private  resi- 
dence. 

"  I  have  to  stop  here  for  a  little  while," 
said  Sir  Lionel,  "  to  see  a  friend  on  l)usiuess. 
Wc  are  not  half-way  to  Dndleigh  Manor  yet ; 
it's  furtlier  than  you  think." 

He  turned  and  went  up  the  steps.  Lady 
Dudleigh  looked  around  once  more,  and  then 
followed  him.  The  men  at  the  head  of  the 
steps  looked  at  her  curiously  as  she  went 
in.  She  took  no  notice  of  them,  however, 
but  walked  past  them,  looking  cahuly  be- 
yond them. 

On  entering  the  house  she  saw  a  bare 
luill  covered  with  slate-colored  oil-cloth,  and 
with  a  table  against  the  wall.  A  gray-head- 
ed man  came  out  of  one  of  the  rooms,  and 
advanced  to  meet  Sir  Lionel,  who  shook 
hands  witli  him  very  cordially,  and  whisper- 
ed to  him  a  few  words.  The  gray-headed 
man  wore  spectacles,  was  clean  sliaveu,  with 
a  double  chin,  and  a  somewhat  sleek  and  oily 
exterior. 

"Lady  Dudleigh," said  Sir  Lionel,  leading 
the  gray-lieaded  man  forward  by  the  arm, 
"allow  uie  to  make  yon  aeciuaintcd  with  my 
particular  frieiul,  Dr.  Leonard  Morton." 

Lady  Dudleigh  bowed  sliglitly,  and  Dr. 
Morton  made  a  profound  obeisance  that 
seemed  like  a  caricature  of  politeness. 

"Will  you  liave  the  kindness  to  walk  up 
stairs!"  siiid  he,  and  led  tbt>  way,  while  the 
otliers  followed  him.  Ascending  the  stairs, 
(iiey  reached  a  large  room  at  tlie  back  of"  the 
iiouse,  wiiich  was  furnislied  in  the  sanu<  stitf 
and  fornuil  way  as  tlu)  hall  below.  Over  the 
uiantel-pieco  hung  an  engraving,  somewliat 
laded  out,  and  on  the  table  were  a  Hil)le  and 
a  pitcher  of  water. 

The  doctor  politely  handed  Lady  Dudleigh 
a  ciiair,  ami  made  cue  or  two  remarks  about 
the  weather. 


"Sir  Lionel," said  he,  "if  Lady  Dudleigh 
will  excuse  us  for  a  few  moments,  I  should 
like  to  speak  with  you  in  private." 

"Will  you  have  the  kindness,  Lady  Dud- 
leigh," asked  Sir  Lionel,  "  to  excuse  us  for  a 
few  moments  T  We  shall  not  leave  you  long 
alone.  And  iiere  is  a  book — an  invaluable 
book  —  with  which  you  may  occupy  your 
time." 

Ho  said  this  with  such  exaggerated  polite- 
ness, and  with  such  a  cuiniing  leer  in  his 
eyes,  that  his  tone  and  manner  were  most 
grotesque ;  and  as  he  concluded  he  took  up 
the  large  Bible  with  ridiculous  solemnity. 

Lady  Dudleigh  merely  bowed  in  silence. 

"A  thousand  thanks,"  said  Sir  Lionel, 
turning  away ;  and  thereupon  he  left  the 
'  room,  l't)llowed  by  the  doctor.  Lady  Dud- 
I  leigli  heard  their  footsteps  descending  the 
I  stairs,  and  then  they  seemed  to  go  into  some 
!  room. 

I      For  some  time  she  forgot  all  about  him. 
The  place  had  at  first  surprised  her,  but  she 
I  gave  it  little  thought.     She  luul  too  nmch 
j  to  think  of.    She  had  before  her  a  task  which 
]  seemed  almost  impossible ;  and  if  she  failed 
!  in  this,  there  was  before  her  that  dread  al- 
;  ternative  which  Sir  Lioiud  had  jjresented  to 
her  so  plainly.     Otht^r  things  too  there  were 
besides  her  husband  —  connected  with  all 
who  were  (h^arest  to  her— her  brother,  per- 
haps, dying  before  he  had  accomi>lislied  his 
work ;   her  sou  so  mysteriously  murdered ; 
her  other  son  awaiting  her  eonnnand  to  as- 
sist in  bringing  his  fatlier  to  death.    IJesides, 
there  was  the  danger  that  even  tiow  might 
be  impending  over  these — the  danger  of  dis- 
covery.   Sir  Lionel's  desperate  threats  might 
have  some  meaning,  and  who  could  tell  how 
it  might  result  if  he  sought  to  carry  out  those 
threats  ? 

llrooding  over  such  thoughts  nn  these,  she 
forgot  about  the  lapse  of  time,  and  at  last 
was  roused  to  herself  by  the  entrance  of  a 
woman.  She  was  largt^  and  coarse  and  fat. 
At  the  door  stood  another  woman. 

"Your  room's  ready,  missus,"  said  the 
woiniin,  bluntly. 

Lady  Dudleigh  rose. 

"I  don't  want  a  rocim,"  said  she.  "I  in- 
tend to  go  in  a  few  miinites." 

"Anyway,  ye'd  better  eoiuo  to  your  room 
now,  and  not  keep  us  wait  in',"  said  the 
wcmiau. 

"  You  needn't  wail,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh. 

"Come  along,'' said  the  woman, iiiipatieut- 
ly.     "  It's  no  use  stayin'  here  all  day." 

Lady  Dudleigh  felt  annoyed  at  this  inso- 
leiu'e,  and  began  to  think  that  Sir  Lionel 
had  run  away  while  sins  had  forgotten  about 
him.  Sh('  said  nothing  to  the  women,  but 
walked  toward  the  door.  The  two  stood 
there  in  the  way. 

"  I  will  go  down,"  said  she,  haughtily, 
"and  wait  below.     (Jo  and  tell  Sir  Lionel." 

The  women  stared  at  one  another. 


THE  LIVING  LINK 


SIIK    WAS    DKAGOEn   ALONG    HELI'LUSSLY. 


"Sir  Lionel  Diulleijjtli,"  said  Lady  Diid- 
leigli,  "  is  with  Dr.  Morton  on  hnsincss.  Tell 
him  that  I  am  tired  of  waiting,  or  take  me 
to  the  room  where  he  is." 

"  Oh  yes,  'm,"  said  one  of  tlio  women ;  and 
saying  this,  slie  went  down  stairs. 

In  a  few  moments  Dr.  Morton  eanie  tip, 
followed  by  the  women.  The  two  men  wlio 
had  been  standing  at  the  door  eame  into 
the  hall,  and  stood  there  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

"  Where  is  Sir  Lionel  1"  was  Lady  Dud- 
leigh's  tirst  words. 

The  doctor  smiled  blandly. 

"Well,  ho  has  just  gone,  yon  know;  but 
he'll  soon  be  back — oh  yes,  ipiite  soon.  You 
wait  here,  and  you  may  go  to  your  room." 

He  spoke  in  an  od.t,  eoaxing  tout!,  as 
tliongli  lu»  were  addressing  some  fretful 
child  whom  it  was  desiral)le  to  iinmor. 

"Gone!"  exclaimed  Lady  Diidleigh. 

"  Yes,  but  he'll  soon  be  back.  You  needn't 
wait  loiig.  And  these  woukmi  will  take  you 
to  your  own  room.  You'll  11  nd  it  very 
l>leasant." 

"  I  have  no  room  here,"  said  Lady  Dud- 
leigh,  haughtily.  "  If  Sir  Lionel  lias  gone,  I 
shall  go  too ;"  and  with  these  words  she  tried 
to  move  past  the  woman  who  was  in  front 
of  h(M'.  Ibit  the  woman  would  not  move, 
and  the  other  woman  and  the  doctor  stood 
there  looking  at  her.  All  at  once  the  truth 
dawned  upon  her,  or  a  part  of  the  truth. 
She  had  been  brought  here,  and  they  would 
koei»  her  here.     Who  they  were  she  could 


not  imagine,  but  their  faces  were  not  at  all 
prepossessing. 

''  Oh,  it's  all  light,"  said  the  doctor,  in  a 
smooth  voice.  "  Yon  shall  go  to-morrow. 
We'll  send  for  Sir  Lionel." 

"Dr.  Morton,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh,  sol- 
emnly, "beware  how  yon  detain  me.  Let 
me  go,  or  you  shall  rejient  it.  I  don't  know 
what  your  motive  is,  but  it  will  be  a  danger- 
ous thing  for  you.  I  am  Lady  Dudleigh, 
and  if  you  dare  to  interfere  wi;h  my  niove- 
ments  you  shall  softer." 

"  Oh  yes,  oh  yes,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Yon 
arc  Lady  Dudleigh.  Oh,  of  course.  And 
now  come.  Lady  Dudleigh;  you  shall  bo 
treated  just  like  a  lady,  and  have  a  nice 
room,  and — " 

"  What  do  yon  mean  f  cried  Lady  Dud- 
leigh, indignantly.  "This  insolence  is  in- 
sutl'erable." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  doctor;  "it  '11  be  all 
right,  yon  know.  Come,  now ;  go  like  a  good 
lady  to  your  room." 

"Are  you  mad  ?"  exclaimed  Lady  Dud- 
leigh, in  amazement. 

The  doctor  smiled  and  nodded. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  1"  asked  Lady 
Dudleigh,  restraining  herself  with  a  strong 
efl'ort. 

"Oh,  nothing ;  we  shall  put  you  in  a  nice 
room,  you  know — all  so  i)leasant — for  you 
are  not  very  well;  and  so.  Susan,  you  just 
take  the  lady's  hand,  and,  >.Iartha,  you  take 
the  other,  and  we'll  show  her  the  way  to  her 
room." 


one. 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


139 


At  tills  fiarh  of  the  •womnn  seized  one  of 
Lady  Dudlcij^h's  hands  quickly  an<l  dex- 
trously,  the  result  of  long  practice,  and  then 
tho3'  drew  her  out  of  the  room.  Lady  Uud- 
leiyh  resisted,  but  her  strength  was  useless. 
She  was  dragged  along  helplessly,  while  all 
the  time  the  doctor  walked  after  her,  prat- 
tling in  his  usual  way  about  "the nice  room," 
and  how  "comfortable"  .she  would  find  it. 
At  length  they  reached  a  room,  and  she  was 
taken  in.  One  of  the  women  entered  with 
her.  Lady  Dudleigh  looked  around,  and 
saw  that  the  walls  were  bare  and  white- 
washed; the  floor  was  nncarpeted;  an  iron 
bedstead  and  some  simple  furniture  were 
around  her,  and  a  small  grated  window  gave 
light. 

It  looked  dreary  enough,  and  suflBciently 
prison-like  to  appall  any  one  who  might  bo 
ilins  suddenly  thrust  in  there.  Lady  Dud- 
leigh sank  into  a  chair  exhauated,  and  the 
woman  began  to  make  her  bed. 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Lady  Dndleigh, 
anxious  to  get  some  clew  to  her  position, 
"  can  you  tell  me  what  all  this  means  ?" 

"  Sure  it's  all  for  the  good  of  your  health," 
Haid  the  woman. 

"  But  I'm  not  ill."  : 

"  No,  not  to  say  ill ;  but  the  body's  often 
all  right  when  the  mind's  all  wrong." 

"  The  mind  T  There's  nothing  the  matter 
with  my  mind.  Dr.  Morton  has  been  de- 
ceived. He  would  not  dare  to  do  this  if  ne 
knew  it."  ■. 

"  Sure,  now,  it's  nothing  at  all,"  and  yo'll 
be  well  soon." 

At  these  simple  words  of  the  woman  Lady 
Dndleigh  began  to  understand  the  situation. 
This  must  be  a  lunatic  asylum,  a  private 
one.  Sir  Lionel  had  brought  her  here,  and 
Told  the  doctor  that  she  was  insane.  The 
doctor  had  accepted  his  statement,  and  had 
received  her  as  such.  This  at  once  account- 
ed for  his  peculiar  mode  of  addressing  her. 

"  There's  a  mistake,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh, 
quietly.  "  Dr.  Morton  has  been  deceived. 
Let  me  see  him  at  once,  please,  and  I  will 
explain.  He  does  not  know  what  a  wrong 
he  is  doing.  My  good  woman,  I  am  no  more 
mad  than  you  are." 

"  Di'ar,  dear!"  said  the  womai.  going  on 
placidly  with  her  work  ;  "  tiiat's  ihe  way 
they  all  talk.  There's  not  one  of  them  that 
believes  they're  mad." 

"  Hut  I'm  not  mad  at  all,"  said  Lady 
Dudleigh,  indignant  at  the  woman's  obtu.se- 
nesH. 

"There,  there;  don't  you  go  for  to  excite 
yourself,"  said  the  woman,  soothingly.  "  Hut 
I  s'pose  you  can't  help  it." 

"  So  tills  is  a  mad-house,  is  it  ?"  said  Lady 
Dudleigh,  gloomily,  after  a  ])au8e. 

"  Well,  'm,  we  don't  call  it  that ;  we  call 
it  a  'sylum.     It's  Dr.  Morton's  'syiiini." 

"Now  see  here,"  said  Lady  Dudleigh, 
making  a  fresh  ettbrt,  and  trying  to  bo  as 


cool  as  possible,  "  I  am  Lady  Dudleigh.  I 
have  been  brought  here  by  a  trick.  Dr. 
Morton  is  deceived.  He  is  committing  a 
crime  in  detaining  me.  I  am  not  mad.  Look 
at  me.  Judge  fur  yourself.  Look  at  me, 
and  say,  do  I  look  like  a  madwoman  ?" 

The  woman,  thus  appealed  to,  good-na- 
turedly acquiesced,  and  looked  at  Lady 
Dudleigh. 

"  'Deed,"  she  remarked,  "ye  look  as  though 
ye've  had  a  deal  of  sutferin'  aforo  ye  came 
here,  an'  I  don't  wonder  yer  mind  give 
way." 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  madwoman  ?"  repeated 
Lady  Dudleigh,  with  a  sense  of  intolerable 
irritation  at  this  woman's  stupidity. 

"'Deed,  then,  an'  I'm  no  judge.  It's  the 
doctor  that  decides." 

"  But  what  do  you  say  ?     Come,  now." 
"Well,  Ihen,  ye  don't  look  very  bad,  px- 
ceptin'  th'!  glr.ie  an'  glitter  of  the  eyes  of 
ye,  an'  yer  fancies." 

"  Fancies  ?     What  fancies  ?" 
"  Why,  yer  fancies  that  ye're  Lady  Dud- 
leigh, an'  all  that  about  Sir  Lionel." 
Lady  Dudleigh  started  to  her  feet. 
"Wiiat!"  she  exclaimed.      "WI13-,  I  am 
Lady  Dudleigh.'! 

"There,  there!"  said  the  woman,  sooth- 
ingly; "sure  I  forgot  myself.  Sure  ye  are 
Lady  Dudleigh,  or  any  liody  else  ye  like. 

'  It's  a  dreadful  inveigliii'  way  ye  liave  to 

,  trap  a  body  the  way  ye  do." 

I  At  this  Lady  Dudleigh  Avas  in  despair. 
No  further  words  were  of  any  avail.     The 

I  woman  was  determined  to  humor  her,  and 
assented   to   every   thing   she    said.       This 

'  treatment  was  so  int(derable  that  Lady  Dud- 
leigh was  afraid  to  say  any  thing  for  fear 
that  she  would  show  the  excitement  of  her 
feelings,  and  such  an  exhibition  would  of 
cour.sc  hav»!  been  considered  as  a  fresh  proof 
of  her  madness. 

j  The  woman  at  length  comiileted  her  task, 
and  retired. 

Lady  Dndleigh  was  left  alone.  She  knew 
it  all  now.  She  reiiu^mbered  the  hitter 
which  Sir  TJoiiel  lia<l  written.  In  that  he 
had  no  doubt  arranged  this  plan  with  Dr. 
Morton,  and  the  coach  bad  been  ready  at 
the  station.  But  in  what  part  of  the  coun- 
try this  place  was  she  had  no  idea,  nor  could 
she  know  whether  Dr.  Morton  was  d<>ceived 
by  Sir  Lionel,  or  was  bis  jtaid  eiiii)loy6  in 
this  work  of  villainy.  His  face  did  not 
give  her  any  eneoiiragenient  to  lio[»e  for 
either  honesty  or  mercy  from  him. 

It  was   an   appalling  situation,  and  she 

,  knew  it.  All  the  horrors  that  she  had  cv<fr 
heard  of  in  connection  with  private  asylums 
occurred  to  her  mind,  and  ileepened  the  ter- 
ror that  surrounded  her.  All  the  other  cares 
of  her  life — the  sorrow  of  bereavement,  the 
anxiety  for  the  sick,  the  jilans  for  Frederick 
Dalton — all  these  and  many  others  now  o])- 

,  pressed  her  till  her  brain  sank   under   the 


'ti 

I 


140 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


crusbing  weight.  A  groan  of  anguish  hurst 
from  lier. 

"  Sir  Lionel's  mockery  will  hecnmo  a  re- 
ality," siio  thought.     "  I  whiill  go  mad !" 

Meanwhile  Sir  Lionel  had  gone  away. 
Leaving  Lady  Dudleigh  in  tlie  room,  ho  had 
gone  down  stairs,  and  after  a  few  hurried 
words  with  the  doctor,  he  left  the  house  and 
entered  the  coach,  which  drove  back  to  the 
station. 

All  the  way  ho  was  in  the  utmost  glee,  rub- 
bing his  hands,  slai>i>ing  his  thighs,  chuck- 
ling to  himself,  laughing  and  cjeering. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!  ha,  ha,  ha!"  ho  laughed. 
"Outwitted!  Tho  keejier — the  keeper 
caught!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Wliy,  she'll  never 
get  out — never!  In  for  life,  Lionel,  my 
boy!  Mad  T  Why,  by  this  time  she's  a  rav- 
ing maniac!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  She  swear  against 
me !  Who'd  beli  a  madwoman,  an  idiot, 
a  lunatic,  a  bedlamite,  a  maniac — a  howling, 
frenzied,  gibbering,  ranting,  raving,  drivel- 
ing, maundering,  mooning  maniac?  And 
now  for  tho  boy  next — tho  parricide!  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  AiTest  him  t  No.  Shut  him  up 
hero — both — with  my  friend  Morton — both 
of  them,  mother  and  son,  tho  two — ha,  ha, 
ha! — witnesses!  One  maniac!  two  maniacs! 
and  then  I  shall  go  mad  with  joy,  and  come 
here  to  live,  and  there  shall  be  three  maniacs ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  ha,  ha,  ha-a-a-a-a-a-a !" 

Sir  Lionel  himself  seemed  mad  now. 

On  leaving  the  coach,  however,  he  became 
calmer,  and  taking  the  first  train  that  camo 
up,  resumed  his  journey. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

TUK   UK.DSIDK   OF   DALTON. 

FREDEnicK  Daltox  remained  in  his  pros- 
trate condition,  with  no  apitarent  change 
cither  for  the  better  or  for  tlie  worse,  and 
thus  a  month  passed. 

One  morning  Uudleigh  requested  an  in- 
terview witli  Edith. 

On  entering  tho  room  he  greeted  her  with 
his  usual  disep  respect. 

"I  hope,  you  will  exc\ise  me  for  troubling 
you,  Miss  Dalton,"  he  said,  "  but  I  wish  very  ■ 
much  to  ask  your  opinion  about  your  father. 
Ho  renuiins,  as  you  know,  unchanged,  and 
this  inn  is  not  tho  place  for  him.     The  air ! 
is  close,  the  place  is  noisy,  and  it  is  inipossi-  j 
bio  for  him  to  have  that  perfect  (^uie^  which 
ho  so  greatly  needs.    Dudleigh  Manor  is  too  | 
far  away,  but  there  is  anothta-  place  close  ■ 
l)y.     I  am  .aware,  Miss  Dalton,  tliat  Dalton  j 
Hall  must  bo  odious  to  you,  and  therefore  I ' 
hesitate  to  ask  you  to  take  your  father  to 
that  place.     Yet  ho  ought  to  go  there,  and 
at  onco.     As  for  yourself,  I  hope  that  the  i 
new  circumstances  under  which  you  will  live  ] 
there  will  nuike  it  less  unpleasant ;  and,  let  i 
mo  add,  for  my  own  part,  it  shall  bo  my  I 


'lULlK   HA.NUS   TOUCUIiU. 


eflbrt  to  see  that  you,  who  have  been  so 
deeply  wronged,  shall  bo  righted — with  all 
and  before  all.  As  to  myself,"  he  continued, 
"  I  would  retire,  and  relieve  you  of  my  pres- 
ence, which  can  not  be  otherwise  than  pain- 
ful, but  there  are  two  reasons  why  I  ought  to 
reuuiin.  The  first  is  your  father.  You  your- 
self are  not  able  to  take  all  tho  care  of  him, 
and  there  is  no  other  wno  can  share  it  ex- 
cept myself.  Next  to  yourself,  no  one  can  be 
to  him  what  I  am,  nor  is  tl-  j  any  one  with 
whom  I  would  be  willing  to  leave  him.  He 
nnist  not  be  left  to  a  servant.  He  unist  be 
nursed  by  those  who  lovo  him.  And  so  I 
nnist  stay  with  him  wherever  he  is.  In  ad- 
dition to  this,  Iiowever,  my  presence  at  Dal- 
ton Hall  will  effectually  quell  the  vulgar 
clamor,  and  all  the  rumors  that  have  been 
pr<^vailing  for  tho  last  few  mouths  will  bo 
silenced." 

Dudleigh  spoke  all  this  calmly  and  seri- 
ously, but  beneath  his  words  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  tone  which  conveyed  a  deeper 
meaning.  That  tone  was  more  than  respect- 
ful— it  was  almost  reverential — as  though 
tho  one  to  whom  he  spoke  required  from 
him  more  than  mere  courtesy.  In  spite  of 
his  outward  calm,  there  was  also  an  emotion 
in  his  voice  which  showed  that  tho  calm 
was  assumed,  and  tliat  beneath  it  lay  some- 
thing which  could  not  bo  all  concealed. 
In  his  eyes,  as  he  tixed  them  on  Edith,  there 
was  that  same  reverential  regard,  which 
seemed  to  sjjcak  of  devotion  and  loyalty  ; 
something  stronger  than  admiration,  sonu^- 
thing  deeper  than  sympathy,  was  exi)ressed 
from  them.  And  yet  it  was  this  that  he 
himself  tried  to  conceal.  It  was  as  though 
this  feeling  of  his  burst  forth  irropressibly 
through  all  concealment,  as  though  the  iu- 


ten 
wo 
an( 

thu 

be 

tail 

woi 

con 


.ji^x 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


141 


tensity  of  this  feeling  made  even  his  calmest 
words  iind  eomnionest  formulas  full  of  a  now 
and  deeper  meaning. 

In  tliat  roverenco  and  profound  devotion 
thus  manifest  there  was  nothing  which  could 
he  otherwise  than  grateful  to  Edith.  Cer- 
tainly Bhe  could  not  t.-vko  oflfenso,  for  his 
words  .and  his  looks  afforded  nothing  which 
could  by  any  possibility  give  rise  to  that. 

For  a  whole  month  this  man  had  been  be- 
fore her,  a  constant  attendant  on  her  father, 
sleeping  his  few  hours  in  an  adjoining  cham- 
ber, with  scarce  a  thought  beyond  that  pros- 
trate friend.  All  the  country  had  been 
searched  for  the  best  advice  or  the  best 
remedies,  and  nothing  had  been  omitted 
which  untiring  affection  could  suggest. 
During  all  this  time  she  had  scarce  seen 
him.  In  the  delicacy  of  his  regard  for  her 
ho  had  studiously  kept  out  of  her  way,  as 
1  hough  unwilling  to  allow  his  presence  to 
give  her  pain.  A  moment  might  occasion- 
ally be  taken  up  with  .a  few  necessary  ar- 
rangements as  she  would  enter,  but  that 
was  all.  He  patiently  waited  till  she  re- 
tired before  he  ventured  to  come  in  himself. 

No ;  in  that  noble  face,  pale  from  illness 
or  from  sadness,  with  the  traces  of  sonow 
upon  it,  and  the  m.arks  of  long  vigils  by  the 
bedside  of  her  father — in  that  relined  face, 
whose  expression  spoke  only  of  elevation  of 
soul,  and  exhibited  the  perfect  type  of  man- 
ly beauty,  there  was  certainly  nothing  that 
could  excite  repugnance,  but  every  thing 
that  might  inspire  confidence. 

Edith  saw  all  this,  and  remarked  it  while 
listening  to  him;  and  she  thought  she  hatl 
never  seen  any  thing  so  pure  in  its  loyalty, 
so  profound  in  its  sympathy,  and  so  sweet  in 
its  sad  grace  as  that  face  which  was  now 
turned  toward  her  with  its  eloquent  eyes. 

She  did  not  say  much.  A  few  words  sig- 
nified her  assent  to  the  proposal.  Dudleigli 
said  that  he  would  make  all  the  necessary 
arrangements,  and  that  she  should  have  no 
trouble  whatever.  With  this  be  took  his 
dep.arturo. 

That  same  evening  another  visitor  came. 
It  was  a  pale,  slender  girl,  who  gave  her 
name  as  Lucy  Ford.  She  said  that  she  had 
been  sent  l)y  Captain  Dudleigli.  She  heard 
that  Edith  htid  no  maid,  and  wished  to  get 
that  situ.ation.  Edith  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment. Could  she  accept  so  direct  a  favor 
from  Dudleigli,  or  give  him  that  mark  of 
confidence  f  Her  hesitation  was  over  at 
once.  She  could  give  him  that,  and  she 
accepted  the  maid.  The  next  djiy  came  a 
housekeeper  and  two  or  three  others,  all 
sent  by  Dudleigh,  all  of  whom  were  accepted 
by  her.  For  Dudleigh  had  found  out  some- 
how the  need  of  servants  at  Dalton  Hall,  and 
had  taken  this  way  of  supplying  that  prime 
requisite. 

It  then  remained  to  move  Dalton.  Ho  still 
continued  in  the  same  condition,  not  much 


changed  physically,  but  in  a  state  of  mental 
torpor,  the  duration  of  which  no  one  was 
able  to  foretell.  Two  short  stages  were  ro- 
([uired  to  take  him  to  Dalton  Hall.  For  this 
a  litter  was  procured,  and  ho  was  carried  all 
the  way.  Edith  went,  with  her  ni;iid  and 
housekeeper,  in  acarriage,  Dudleigh  on  horse- 
back, ami  the  other  servants,  with  the  lug- 
gage, in  various  conveyances. 

Dalton  received  no  benefit  from  his  jour- 
ney, but  his  friends  were  happy  enough  that 
he  had  received  no  injury.  The  medical  at- 
tendance at  Dalton  Hall  was,  as  before,  the 
best  that  could  bo  obtained,  and  all  the  care 
that  affection  could  suggest  was  lavished 
upon  him. 

From  what  has  already  been  said,  it  will 
be  seen  that  in  making  this  migration  to 
Dalton  Hall,  Dudleigh  was  regardful  of  many 
things  besides  the  ])atieiit.  He  had  made 
every  arrangement  for  the  comfort  of  the  oc- 
cupants. He  had  sought  out  all  the  domes- 
tics that  Avere  necessary  to  diffuse  an  air  of 
home  over  such  a  large  establishment,  and 
had  been  careful  to  submit  them  to  Edith 
for  her  approval.  Ho  had  also  procured 
horses  and  gnxmis  and  carriages,  and  every 
thing  that  might  conduce  to  the  comfort  of 
life.  The  old  solitude  and  loneliness  were 
thus  terminated.  The  new  housekeeper 
prevented  Edith  from  feeling  any  anxiety 
about  domestic  concerns,  and  the  servants 
all  showed  themselves  well  trained  and  jier- 
fectly  subordinate. 

Daltou's  room  was  at  the  west  end  of  the 
building.  Edith  occupied  her  old  apart- 
ments. Dudleigh  took  that  which  had  be- 
longed to  his  "  double."  The  housekeeper 
took  the  room  that  had  been  occupied  by 
Lady  Dudleigh. 

Dudleigli  was  as  devoted  as  ever  to  the 
sick  man.  He  remained  at  his  bedside 
through  the  greater  part  of  the  nights  and 
through  the  mornings.  In  the  afternoons 
ho  retired  as  befort>,  and  gave  ]ilace  to  Edith. 
When  he  was  there  he  sometimes  had  a  serv- 
ant u})on  whom  he  could  rely,  and  then,  if 
ho  felt  unusual  fatigue,  and  circumstances 
were  favorable,  he  was  able  to  snatch  a  lit- 
tle sleep.  Ho  usually  went  to  bed  at  two  in 
the  afternocui,  rose  at  seven,  and  in  tluit 
brief  sleep,  with  occasional  naps  during  the 
morning,  obtained  enough  to  last  him  for 
the  day.  With  tliis  rest  he  was  satisfied, 
and  needed,  or  at  least  sought  for,  no  recre- 
ation. During  the  hours  of  tlu^  morning  he 
was  able  to  attend  to  tliose  outside  duties 
that  required  overseeing  or  direction. 

But  while  he  watched  in  this  way  over 
the  invalid,  he  was  not  a  more  watcher. 
That  invalid  re(iuired,  after  all,  but  little  at 
the  hands  of  his  nurses,  and  Dudleigh  had 
much  to  do. 

On  his  arrival  at  Dalton  Hall  he  had  pos- 
sessed himself  of  all  the  papers  that  his 
"double"  had  left  behind  him,  and  those  ho 


142 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


diligently  Hiudicd,  ho  iis  to  Ito  aUlo  to  carry  I 
out  with  tlut  utiiioHt  etlicii^iicy  the  piirpime  | 
tbut  ho  had  in  IiIh  mind.     It  wuh  during  the  I 
long  watchuH  of  tlut  night  that  ho  Htudied  ; 
thfso  paperH,  trying  to  make  ont  from  tht'ni  ■ 
tho  manner  of  lifo  and  tho  aHMociatcs  of  tho  , 
ono  who  had  left  them,  trying  uIho  to  arrivo  ! 
at  Hoino  clew  to  his  mysterious  disappear- 1 
anco.     This  study  he  (tonld  keep  up  witiiout ' 
detriraoii',   to   his  ollieo  of  attendant,   and 
wliilo  watching  over  tho  invalid  ho  could 
carry  out  his  investigations.     Sometimes,  in 
tlni  afternoons,  after  indulging  in  moro  fre- 
(pKtnt  na])s  than  usual  during  the  mornings, 
ho  was  ahle  to  go  out  for  a  ride  about  the 
grounds.     lie  was  a  first-rate  horseman,  and 
Edith   noticed   his   iidniiralih;   seat    as   she 
looked  from  tho  windows  of  her  father's 
room. 

Thus  time  went  on. 

Gradually  Dudleigh  and  Edith  began  to  ! 
occupy  a  ditferent  position  toward  ono  an- ; 
other.      At  tho  inn  their  relations  wen^  as 
lias  been  shown.     Hut  after  their  arrival  at 
Dalton  Hall  there  occurred  a  gradual  change. 

As  Edith  eanio  to  the  room  on  the  tirst 
day,  Dudleigh  waited.  On  entering  she  saw 
bis  c.-es  lixed  on  hi'r  with  an  expression  of  ; 
]iainful  suspense,  of  earnest,  eagi.T  inijuiry. 
In  that  elocjucnt  appealing  glance  all  his  j 
soul  seemed  to  beam  from  his  eyes.  It  was 
reverent,  it  was  ahnost  humble,  yet  it  looked 
for  some  small  concession.  May  I  hopet  it 
said.  Will  yon  give  a  thought  to  nm  ?  See, 
I  stainl  here,  and  I  hang  u])on  your  look. 
Will  y<Mi  turn  away  from  me  ? 

Edith  did  not  rt!pel  that  nnito  appeal. 
There  was  that  in  her  face  which  broke 
down  Dudleigh's  reserve.  Ho  advanced  to- 
ward her  and  held  out  his  hand.  She  did 
not  reject  it. 

It  was  but  a  commonplace  thing  to  do — it 
was  whiit  might  have  lieen  done  before — yet 
between  these  two  it  was  far  from  common- 
jilacc.  Th(!ir  bands  touched,  their  eyes  met, 
but  neither  spoko  a  word.  It  was  but  a 
light  grasp  that  Dudleigh  gave.  Koveren- 
tially,  yet  tenderly,  be  took  that  band,  not 
venturing  to  go  beyond  what  might  Ix;  ac- 
corded to  the  merest  stranger,  but  content- 
ing himself  with  that  one  concicssioii.  With 
that  he  retired,  carrying  with  him  tho  re- 
membrance of  that  neanu-  approach,  and  tho 
hope  of  what  yet  might  be. 

After  that  tlio  extrenui  reserve  was  broken 
down.  Each  liay,  on  meeting,  a  shako  of  the 
hands  was  accompanied  by  something  more. 
JJetweon  any  others  these  greetings  wonld 
liave  been  the  most  natural  thing  in  tho 
world ;  but  hero  it  was  different.  There  was 
one  subject  in  which  each  took  the  deepest 
interest,  and  about  which  each  had  some- 
thing to  say.  Frederick  Dalton's  health  was 
precious  to  each,  and  each  felt  anxiety  about 
bis  condition.  This  formed  a  theme  about 
which  they  might  speak. 


As  Dudleigh  waited  for  Edith,  so  Edith 
waited  for  Dudleigh;  and  still  there  were 
the  samti  (|iiestions  to  bo  asketl  and  answer- 
ed. Standing  thus  together  in  that  sick- 
room, with  one  life  forming  a  common  bond 
between  them,  conversing  in  low  whispers 
uiKUi  ont(  so  dear  to  both,  it  woidd  have  been 
strange  indeed  if  any  thing  like  wantof  cou- 
lidenco  bud  remained  on  either  side. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

A   HKTTKK   INDKIJSTANDINO. 

Drni.KUill  lived  on  as  before,  assiduous 
in  bis  attendance,  dividing  his  lime  cbieliy 
between  nursing  ami  study  of  tho  pajicrs 
already  mentioned.  He  never  went  out  of 
tint  grounds  on  those  occasional  ridcii,  and 
if  anyone  in  the  neighborhood  noticed  this, 
tho  recent  sad  (ivents  might  have  been  con- 
sidered an  excuse.  Thus  these  two  were 
thrown  upon  ono  another  exclusivelj'.  F(U' 
each  tht;re  was  no  other  society.  As  for 
Edith,  Dudleigh  bad  done  so  much  that  slu; 
ftdt  a  natural  gratitudes ;  and  more  than  this, 
there  was  in  her  mind  u  sense  of  security 
and  of  dependeiu'o. 

Meanwhile,  Dudleigh's  pale  face  grew  piiler. 
His  sleep  had  all  abuig  been  utterly  inade- 
(luate,  and  tins  incessant  eontinement  had 
begun  to  show  its  elVects.  Ho  had  been  ac- 
customed to  an  open-air  life  and  vigorous  ex- 
ercise. This  <iui(!t  wattbing  at  the  btMlsidc 
of  Dalton  was  more  trying  to  bis  strengtii 
than  severe  labor  could  have  been. 

The  change  in  him  was  not  lost  on  Edith, 
and  even  if  gratitiulo  toward  him  bad  been 
wanting,  common  humanity  would  have  im- 
pelled her  to  speak  about  it. 

Ono  day,  as  she  came  in,  sho  was  struck  by 
his  apjiearance.  His  face  was  ghastly  white, 
and  be  bad  been  sitting  with  his  Insad  in  bis 
bands  as  sho  softly  entered.  In  an  instant, 
as  be  beard  her  step,  ho  st.arted  nj),  and  ad- 
vanced with  a  radiant  smile,  a  smile  ca\ised 
by  her  apjiroacb. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  yon  are  overtasking  your- 
self," said  Edi.b,  gently, aftci" the  usual  gn^'t- 
ing.  "  You  are  here  too  nuicb.  The  eontine- 
ment is  too  trying.  You  must  take  more  rest 
and  exercise." 

Dudleigh's  face  was  suffused  with  a  sud- 
den glow  of  delight. 

"  It  is  kind  of  you  to  notice  it,"  said  be, 
earnestly,  "but  I'm  sure  you  arc  mistaken. 
I  could  do  far  more  if  necessary.  This  is 
my  i)lace,  and  this  is  my  true.st  oecui)alion  '' 

"For  that  very  reason,"  said  Edith,  in 
tones  that  showed  more  concern  than  she 
would  have  cared  to  acknowledge — ^"for 
that  very  reason  you  ought  to  preserve 
yourself — for  his  sake.  You  confine  your- 
self hero  too  ranch,  and  take  too  little  rest. 
I  SCO  that  you  feel  it  already." 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


143 


"If"  Hiiitl  Diidleijih,  with  a  li^lit  liui>{Ii,  | 
•wliiiHo  niiiHiciil  (ladfiico  Hoiiiidcd  very  NWci't 
to  Ktlitli,  and  rovfalcil  to  licr  aiiotlit'i'  Hi<l(^ 
of  IiIh  charui'tcr  vi-ry  difl'croiit  from  that  Had 
and  nii'hincholy  oiiu  which  \w  had  thiiH  far 
Hliown — "  1 1     Why,  you  liavc  no  iih'a  of  my  i 
capacity  for  this  Hoit  i>f  tiling.     1'>-cuhc  inc, ' 
MiHH  Dalton,  hut  it  KcctuN  abNiird    <>  tall^  of 
iny  Itrcaking  (h)wn  under  micli  worii  a8  thit*."  , 

Kditli  h1ioo1<  licr  licad. 

"You  mIiow  traces  of  it,"  Haid  Hhc,  in  a 
RCMitlc  voice,  looliing  away  from  him,  "  wliich  j 
common  inimanity  would  comjiel  mii  to  no- 
tice.   You  must  not  do  all  tho  work ;  I  must  I 
havo  jiart  of  it." 

"  }  oMf"  exclaimed  Dudleicrh,  with  infinite 
toiideriiess  in  his  tone.  "  Do  you  tiiink  tliat 
I  woiihl  allow  »/0H  to  Hjieiid  any  more  lime: 
liere  than  you  now  do,  or  that  I  would  spare 
myself  at  tho  exjuMiso  of  yoiir  health  T  Nt^v- 
er!  Aside  from  the  fact  that  your  father  is 
80  dear  to  me,  there  are  considerations  for 
y.»a  which  would  lead  me  to  die  at  my  jiost 
rather  than  allow  you  to  have  any  more 
troiihle." 

There  was  a  fervor  in  I)ndlei;;h's  tones 
which  penetrated  to  Edith's  heart.  There 
was  a  deep  glow  in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at 
her  which  Edith  did  not  care  to  encounter. 

"You  are  of  far  more  im]iortanc(;  to  Sir 
Lionel  than  I  am,"  said  she,  after  a  pause 
which  liej^an  to  hv  emharrassinj;.  "Hut 
whiit  will  become  of  him  if — if  you  are  pros- 
trated ?" 

"I  shall  not  be  prostrated,"  said  Dudleiffh. 

"I  think  you  will  if  this  state  of  things 
continues." 

"Oh,  I  j'on't  think  tliere  is  any  prospect 
of  my  giving  up  just  yet." 

"  No.  I  know  your  alfection  for  him,  an.l 
that  it  would  keep  you  here  until — until 
you  could  not  slay  any  longer;  and  it  is  this 
which  I  wish  to  avoi(i. ' 

"  It  is  my  duty,"  said  Dndleigh.  "  lie  is 
one  whom  I  revere  more  than  any  oilier  man, 
and  love  as  a  father.  Hesi.lrs,  there  are 
other  things  that  bind  me  to  him — his  im- 
measurable wrongs,  his  matchless  jiatience 
— wrongs  intlict(!d  by  one  who  is  my  father ; 
and  I,  as  the  son,  fetd  it  a  holy  duty,  the  ho- 
liest of  all  dutii.'s,  to  stand  by  that  bedside 
aiul  devote  myscdf  to  him.  He  is  your  fa- 
tlier,Miss  Dalton,  but  you  havo  never  known 
him  as  I  have  known  him — the  soul  of  hon- 
or, tho  stainless  gentleman,  the  ideal  of  chiv- 
alry aiul  loyalty  and  truth.  This  he  is,  and 
lor  this  he  lies  there,  and  my  wretched  fa- 
tlu-r  it  is  who  has  done  this  ilced.  Hut  that 
father  is  a  father  only  in  name,  and  I  have 
long  ago  transferred  a  sou's  love  and  a  son's 
duty  to  that  gentle  and  noble  and  injured 
friend." 

This  outburst  of  feeling  came  forth  from 
Dudleigh's  inmost  heart,  and  was  spoken 
with  a  passionate  fervor  which  showed  how 
Uoojdy  he  felt  what  he  said.     Every  word 


thrilled  through  Edith.  Bitter  self-n'proacli 
at  that  moment  came  to  her,  as  site  thought 
of  her  own  relations  to  her  father.  What 
Dudh'igh's  liad  been  she  did  not  know,  but 
she  saw  that  in  him  her  father  had  found  a 
son.  And  what  had  his  daughter  been  to 
him  T  Of  that  shi^  dared  not  think.  Her 
heart  was  wrung  with  sharp  anguish  at  the 
memories  of  the  past,  while  at  the  same 
time  she  felt  drawn  more  closely  to  Dnd- 
leigh, who  had  thus  been  to  him  all  that  she 
had  failed  to  be.  Had  she  spoken  what  she 
thought, s'le  would  have  thanked  antl  bless- 
ed him  foi  those  words.  Hut  she  did  not 
dare  to  trust  herself  to  speak  of  that ;  rath- 
er she  trie<l  to  restrain  lu-rself ;  and  when  slui 
spoke,  it  was  with  a  strong  ell'ort  at  thisself- 
contnd. 

"  Well,"  slio  said,  in  a  voice  which  was 
tremulous  in  spile  of  all  her  elTorts,  "  this 
shows  how  dear  you  nnist  lie  to  him,  since 
he  has  found  such  love  in  you,  and  so  for  Iuh 
sake  you  must  sjiare  yourself.  You  nmst 
not  stay  here  so  constantly.'' 

"Who  is  there  to  take  my  place?"  asked 
Dndleigh,  (piietly. 
"I,"  said  Edith. 
Dndleigh  smiled. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  hr.,  "that  I  would 
allow  Ihatf  Even  if  I  needed  more,  rest, 
which  I  do  not,  do  you  think  that  I  would 
take  it  at  your  expense  —  that  I  would  go 
away,  enjoy  myself,  and  leave  you  to  bear 
the  fatigue?  No,  Miss  Dalton;  Iamnot(iuito 
so  seltish  as  that." 

"  Hut  you  will  let  me  stay  hero  more  than 
I  do,"  said  Edith,  earnestly.  "  I  may  as  well 
bo  here  as  in  my  own  room.  Will  you  not 
let  me  have  half  the  care,  and  occasionally 
allow  you  to  take  n^st?" 

81)0  s)ioke  timidly  and  anxiously,  as 
though  she  was  asking  some  favor.  And 
(his  was  the  feeling  that  she  had,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  this  man,  who  had  been 
a  son  to  her  father,  had  mon;  claims  on  his 
love,  and  a  truer  right  here,  than  she,  the 
unworthy  daughter. 

Dndleigh  smiled  u[)on  her  with  infinite 
tenderness  as  he  replied: 

"Half  the  care!  How  could  yon  endure 
it  ?  You  are  too  delicate  for  so  nnich.  You 
do  too  nnich  already,  an<l  I  am  only  anxious 
to  relieve  you  of  that.  I  was  going  to  urge 
you  to  give  up  half  of  the  afternoon,  and 
take  it  myself.'' 

"  Give  up  half  the  afternoon !"  cried  Edith. 
"  Why,  I  want  to  do  more." 

"  Hut  that  is  impossible.  You  are  not 
strong  enough,"  said  Dndleigh.  "  I  fear  all 
the  time  that  you  are  now  overworking  your- 
self. I  would  never  forgive  myself  if  you  re- 
ceived any  harm  from  this." 

"Oh,  I  am  very  much  stronger  than  you 
sujipose.     Uesides,  nursing  is  woman's  work, 
and  would  fatigue  me  far  less  than  you." 
"  I  can  not  bear  to  have  you  fatigue  your- 


Si 


144 


THE  LIVfNG  LINK. 


Belf  in  any  way.  You  must  not — and  I 
would  do  far  more  rather  than  allow  you 
to  liavo  any  trouble." 

"But  even  if  my  health  should  suffer,  it 
would  not  be  of  much  consequence.  So  at 
least  let  mo  relieve  you  of  something." 

"  Your  health  f"  said  Dudleigh,  looking  at 
lier  with  an  eiinicst  glance ;  "  your  lutaltb  T 
Why,  that  i.s  every  thing.  Mine  is  nothing. 
Can  you  suggest  such  a  thing  to  mo  as  that 
I  should  allow  airy  trouble  to  come  to  youf 
Hesides,  your  delicate  health  already  alarms 
me.  You  have  not  yet  recovered  from  your 
illness.  You  are  not  capable  of  enduring 
fatigue,  and  I  am  always  reproaching  my- 
self for  allowing  you  to  stay  here  as  nnicli  as 
you  do.  The  Dudleighs  have  done  eiu)ugh. 
They  have  brought  the  father  to  this;"  and 
'lo  pointed  mourufully  to  the  bed.  '  JJiit,"  ho 
added,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  the  daughter 
should  ut  least  be  saved,  and  to  have  harm 
come  to  her  would  bo  worse  than  death  it- 
self— to  me." 

Edith  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Her 
lu'.art  was  beating  fast.  When  she  spoke,  it 
was  with  an  eflbrt,  and  in  as  calm  a  voice  as 
possible. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  am  quite  recovered. 
Indeed,  I  am  as  well  as  ever,  and  I  wish  to 
spend  itKue  time  here.  Will  you  not  let  me 
stay  here  longer  T" 

*'  How  can  I  ?  The  conrtncment  would 
wear  you  out." 

"It  would  not  bo  more  fatiguing  than 
staying  in  my  own  room,"  persisted  Edith. 

"  I'm  afraid  there  would  lu\  very  much 
difl'erence,"  said  Dudleigh.  "  In  your  own 
room  you  have  no  particular  anxiety,  but 
here  you  would  have  the  incessant  responsi- 
bility of  a  nurse.  You  wotild  have  to  watch 
your  father,  and  every  movement  would  give 
you  concern." 

"And  this  harnssing  care  is  what  I  wish 
to  save  you  from,  and  share  with  you,"  said 
Edith, earnestly.  "Will  you  not  consent  to 
thisT" 

"To  share  it  with  you?"  said  Dudleigh, 
looking  at  her  with  unutterable  t(Mideriu'ss. 
"To  share  it  with  you?"  he  rei)eated.  "It 
would  be  only  too  mneh  hii|)piness  for  n\e  to 
do  so,  but  not  if  you  are  going  to  overwork 
yourself." 

"  But  I  will  not,"  said  Edith.  "  If  I  do,  I 
can  stop.  I  only  ask  to  be  allowed  to  come 
ill  during  the  morning,  so  as  to  relieve  you 
of  some  of  your  work.  You  will  consent, 
will  yon  not?" 

Edith  asked  him  this  as  though  Diiu'-igh 
bad  exclusive  right  h(>re,  and  sbt  liiid  none. 
She  could  not  lielj)  feeling  as  if  this  was  so, 
iind  this  feeling  arose  from  those  memories 
which  she  had  of  that  terrible  jiast.  when 
she  ignorantly  hurled  at  that  father's  heart 
words  that  stung  'ikt^  the  stings  of  scorpi- 
ons. Never  eoii'.d  she  forgive  herself  for 
that,  and  fur  this  she  now  humbled  herself 


in  this  way.  Her  tone  was  so  pleading  that 
Dudleigh  could  refuse  no  longer.  With 
many  deprecatory  expressions,  and  many 
warnings  and  charges,  he  at  last  consented 
to  let  her  divide  the  morning  attfiudance 
with  him.  She  was  to  come  in  at  eleven 
o'clock. 

This  arrangement  was  at  once  acted  upon. 
On  the  following  day  Edith  came  to  her  fa- 
ther's room  at  eleven.  Dudleigh  had  much 
to  ask  her,  and  much  to  say  to  her,  about  her 
father's  condition.  He  was  afraid  that  she 
was  not  strong  enough.  He  seemed  to  half 
repent  his  agreement.  On  the  other  hand, 
Edith  a.ssured  him  most  earnestly  that  she 
was  strong  enough,  that  she  would  come 
here  for  the  future  regularly  at  eleven 
o'clock,  and  urged  him  to  take  care  of  his 
own  health,  anil  seek  some  recreation  by 
riding  about  the  grounds.  This  Dudleigh 
promised  to  do  in  the  afternoon,  but  just 
then  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  go.  He  lin- 
gered on.  They  talked  in  low  whispers,  with 
their  heads  close  together.  They  had  much 
to  talk  about ;  her  health,  his  health,  her  fa- 
ther's condition — all  these  had  to  be  di.scuss- 
ed.  Thus  it  was  that  the  last  vestiges  of 
mutual  reserve  began  to  bo  broken  down. 

Day  succeeded  to  day,  and  Edith  always 
came  to  her  father's  room  in  the  morning. 
At  first  she  always  urged  Dudleigh  to  go  oft' 
and  take  exercise,  but  at  length  she  ceased 
to  urge  him.  For  two  or  three  hours  every 
day  they  saw  much  of  one  another,  and  thus 
associated  under  circumstances  which  en- 
forced the  closest  intimacy  and  the  stron- 
gest mutual  sympathy. 


CHAi  iLR  XLVni. 

CAPTAIN    CKl'IK.SHANK. 

Wiiii.K  these  things  were  going  on,  the 
world  outside  was  not  altogether  indifter- 
ent  to  affairs  in  Dalton  Hall.  In  the  village 
and  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  rumor 
had  been  busy,  and  at  length  the  vague 
statements  of  the  public  voice  began  to  take 
shape. 

This  is  what  rumor  said:  Dudleigh  is  an 
impostor! 

An  impostor,  it  said.  For  the  true  Dud- 
leigh, it  asserted,  was  still  missing.  This 
was  not  the  real  man.  The  remains  fouml 
in  the  well  had  never  been  accounted  for. 
.Justice  had  foregone  its  claims  too  r(>adily. 
Tiie  act  remained,  and  the  blood  of  the  slain 
called  aloud  for  vengeance. 

How  such  a  strange  rejiort  was  first  start- 
ed no  one  knew;  but  there  it  was,  and  the 
Dalton  mystery  remained  as  obscure  as  ever. 

Various  eirciimstances  contributed  to  in- 
crease the  public  suspicion.  All  men  saw 
that  Dudleigh  was  dili'erent  from  this  man, 
or  else  he  hud  greatly  changed.     For  tbo 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


145 


former  was  always  oiitsiflt*,  in  the  world, 
wliile  f  Lis  man  remained  secluded  and  sliut 
up  in  the  Hull.  Why  did  lie  never  show  him- 
self f  Why  did  he  surround  himself  with  all 
this  secrec'v  f     This  was  the  question. 

The  servants  were  eagerly  questioned 
whenever  any  of  them  made  their  appear- 
ance in  the  village,  but  as  they  were  all 
new  in  the  place,  their  testimony  was  of 
little  value.  They  could  only  say  that  he 
was  devoted  to  the  invalid,  and  that  he  call- 
ed Miss  Ualton  by  that  name,  and  had  call- 
ed her  by  that  name  when  he  engaged  them 
fur  her  service. 

Soon  p"'I>1ic  opinion  took  two  different 
forms,  and  two  parties  arose.  One  of  these 
believed  the  present  Dudlcigh  to  be  an  im- 
postor; the  other,  however,  maintained  that 
he  was  the  real  man,  and  that  the  cliunge 
in  his  character  was  to  be  accounted  for  on 
the  grounds  of  the  terrible  calamities  that 
had  resulted  from  his  thoughtlessness,  to- 
gether with  his  own  repentance  for  the  suf- 
fering which  he  had  indicted. 

Meanwhile  the  subject  of  all  this  excite- 
ment and  gossip  was  living  in  his  own  se- 
clusion, quite  ai)art  from  the  outside  world. 
One  change,  however,  had  taken  jjlaco  in 
his  life  which  recjuired  immediate  action  on 
bis  i)art. 

A  great  number  of  letters  had  como  for 
"Ciiplain  Dudlcigh."  The  receipt  of  these 
gave  him  tronlde.  They  were  reminders  of 
various  pecuniary  obligations  which  hal 
been  contracted  some  time  i)revionsly.  They 
were,  in  short — duns.  He  bad  been  at  Dal 
ton  Hall  some  six  weeks  b.^fore  these  inter- 
esting letters  began  to  arrive.  After  that 
time  they  came  in  clusters,  fast  and  frequent. 
The  examination  of  these  formed  no  small 
part  of  his  occupation  when  he  was  alone. 

Some  of  these  letters  were  joi'i.lar  in  their 
tone,  reminding  him  of  his  chronic  imi)ei'u- 
niosity,  and  his  well-known  im])racticability 
in  every  thing  relating  to  money.  These 
jocular  letters,  however,  never  failed  to  re- 
mind him  tliat.  as  he  had  made  a  rich  malch, 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  pay 
liis debts,  especially  as  the  writers  were  hard 
u]),  and  had  waiteil  so  long  witiiont  trou- 
bling him.  These  jocular  letters,  in  fa(!t, 
informed  him  that  if  a  seltleini'iit  was  not 
made  at  once,  it  would  be  very  mucii  tlie 
worse  for  Dudlcigh. 

Others  were  from  old  H])orting  comi>anions, 
reminding  him  of  bets  which  had  not  been 
paid,  (^xjiressing  astonishment  which  was 
child-like  in  its  simplicity,  and  reciuesting 
an  immediate  HCttlement.  Tliesti  were  gen- 
erally short,  curt,  and  altogether  unpleasant. 

Otlii-rs  were  business  letters,  containing 
the  announcement  of  notes  falling  due.  (Oth- 
ers were  from  lawyers,  stating  the  fact  that 
certain  specilied  claims  hail  l)een  put  in  their 
liaiids  for  collection.  an<l  rei|uestiiig  early  at- 
teuliou. 

K 


All  these  seemed  to  como  together.  Mis- 
fortunes, says  the  ])roverb,  never  come  sin- 
gly, and  duns  may  fairly  be  reckoned  among 
misfortunes.  These  duns,  however,  trouble- 
some though  they  were,  were  one  by  one  got 
rid  of  by  tlie  simi)le  and  eftectual  process  of 
payment;  for  Dudlcigh  considered  it  on  the 
whole  safer  and  better,  under  these  peculiar 
circumstances,  to  pay  the  money  which  was 
demanded  than  to  expose  himself  to  arrest 
or  lawsuits. 

In  connection  with  these  affairs  an  event 
occurred  which  at  the  time  caused  tnieasi- 
ness,  and  gave  the  prospect  of  future  trouble. 
One  day  a  gentleman  called  and  sent  up  his 
card.  It  was  Captain  Cruikshank.  The 
name  Dudlcigh  recognized  as  one  which  had 
been  ap])ended  to  several  dunning  letters  of 
the  most  imi)ortunate  kind,  and  the  individ- 
ual himself  was  apparently  some  sporting 
friend. 

On  going  down  Dudlcigh  saw  a  portly, 
bald-headed  man,  with  large  whiskers, stainl- 
ing  in  front  of  one  of  tlie  drawing-room  win- 
dows, looking  out.  He  seemed  midway  be- 
tween a  gentleman  and  a  blackleg,  being 
neither  altogether  one  nor  the  other.  At  the 
noise  of  Dudleigh's  entrance  he  turned  (piick- 
ly  arounil,  and  with  a  hearty,  blutV  manner 
walked  up  to  him  and  held  out  his  hand. 

Dudlcigh  fixed  his  eyes  steadily  upon  those 
of  the  other  man,  and  bowed,  without  ac- 
cepting the  iirotl'crcd  hand,  apjiearing  not  to 
see  it.  His  whole  inien  was  full  of  aristo- 
cratic reserve,  ;ind  c(tld,  repellent  distance 
of  manner,  which  checked  the  other  in  the 
midst  of  a  full  fide  of  voluble  congratula- 
tions into  which  lu^  had  thing  himself.  Tims 
interrupted,  he  looked  confused,  stammered, 
and  finally  said, 

'"Poll  my  honor,  Dudleigl),  yon  don't  ap- 
jiear  to  bo  overcordial  with  an  old  friend, 
that's  seen  you  through  so  many  scrapes  as 
1  have." 

"Circumstances,"  said  Dudlcigh,  "of  a  very 
]iainful  character  have  forceil  me  to  sever 
myself  completely  from  all  my  former  asso- 
ciates— .ill,  without  exception." 

"Well,  of  course — as  to  that,  it's  all  right, 
I  dare  say,"  remarked  the  otiier,  from  whom 
Duilleigb  never  removed  his  ryes;  '•Imt  then, 
you  know,  it  seems  to  me  that  some  friends 
ought  to  be — a — retained,  you  know,  and  you 
and  I,  you  know,  were?  always  of  that  sort 
that  we  weni  useful  to  one  another." 

This  was  thrown  out  as  a  very  strong  liinf 
on  tiie  )iart  of  Captain  Cruikshank,  and  he 
wal<'hed  Duilleigh  earnestly  to  see  its  elfect. 

"1  make  no  exceptions  whatever,"  said 
Dudleigh.  "  What  has  occurred  to  me  is  the 
same  as  death.  1  am  dead  virtually  to  the 
world  in  which  I  once  lived.  My  former 
friends  and  aci|uaintances  ari^  the  same  as 
thou;;li  I  had  never  known  them." 

"(Jadl  something  has  come  over  you,  that's 
a  fact,"  said  Captain  Cruikshank.     "  You'iv 


THE  LIVING  LINK 


\}i'-^  '''it'  l'l''l  V,\\\,\;v; 


'  WELL,    KKAI.I.Y — YES,    THIS    IS    IT. 


a  cliangou  man,  wliatovcr  tlio  reason  is. 
Well,  von  luive  1  rijflit  to  clioos(!  for  yonr- 
seir,  and  I  can't  be  ottended.  At  the*  same 
time,  if  yon  e\-er  want  to  Join  the  old  set 
Ufitain,  let  me  know,  and  I  promise  you  there'll 
bo  no  dittienlty." 

Dndleifjli  bowed. 

"  But  then  I  snppose  yoii'ro  sottk'd  down 
in  sneh  infernally  eomfortalile  (inarters," 
continued  tlm  other,  "that  it's  not  likely 
you'll  ever  tronlile  us  ajjain.  Married  aiul 
done  for— that's  the  word.  Plenty  of  money, 
and  nothing  to  do." 

"  If  you  liave  any  thing  particular  to  say," 
said  Uudleigh,  coldly,  "  1  Nhonld  like  to  he;ir 
it ;  if  not,  I  must  excuse  myself,  as  I  aui  par- 
ticularly euH'ajJted." 

"  ( Hi,  no  olfens(>.  no  otiense  ;  I  meri'ly  came 
to  offer  an  old  frientl's  eonnratidations,  yon 
know,  and —  Hy-the-way,"e(uitinued(!ruik- 
sliank,  lowering  his  voice,  "  there's  that-  lit- 
tle I  C)  IT  of  yours.  1  thought  perliajis  you 
might  lind  it  convenient  to  settle,  and  if  so, 
it  would  be  a  great  favor  to  me." 

"What  is  the  amount  f  a.sked  Dudleigh, 
who  n'membered  this  particular  debt  per- 


fectly well,  since  it  had  been  the  subject  of 
more  than  one  letter  of  a  most  niipleasunt 
character. 

"  The  amount  ?"  said  ( 'rnikshank.  "  Well, 
really — let  me  see — 1  don't  (luite  remember, 
but  I'll  lind  out  in  a  monu'ut." 

With  these  words  he  drew  fortli  Iiis  jiock- 
et-book  and  fumbled  among  the  jiapers.  At 
length  he  produced  one,  and  tried  hard  to 
look  as  if  he  had  not  known  all  along  per- 
fectly well  what  that  amount  was. 

"  Wt  11.  really —yes,  this  is  it,"  he  reuuirk- 
ed,  as  he  lo(died  at  a  piece  of  paper.  "The 
amount,  did  you  say  f  The  amount  is  Just 
t  wo  bundled  ]iounds.  It's  not  mneli  tor  yon, 
as  yon  are  now  situated,  I  should  suppose." 

"Is  that  the  note  ?"  asked  Dudleigh,  who 
was  anxious  to  get  rid  of  this  visitor,  and  sus- 
l)e<-ted  all  ahuig  that  he  might  have  a  deeper 
purpose  than  the  mere  collection  of  a  debt. 

"Tliat  is  the  iiote,"s!iid  ('rnikshank. 

"1  will  pay  it  now,"  said  Iiudleigh. 

He  left  the  room  for  a  short  lime,  and  dur- 
ing liis  absence  ('rnikshank  amused  liimself 
with  Hliiring  at  the  portrait  of  "Captain 
Duilleigh,"  which  hung  in  a  conspicuous  po- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


14» 


sition  before  liis  eyes.  Ho  w.as  not  kept  long 
waiting,  for  Dndleigh  soon  retnnied,  and 
lianded  liim  the  money.  Cruiksliank  took 
it  with  immense  satisfaction,  and  handed  the 
note  over  in  retnrn,  which  Dndleigh  carefnl- 
ly  transferred  to  his  own  pocket-book,  where 
he  kept  many  other  sncli  papers. 

Crnikshank  now  bade  him  a  very  effnsive 
adien.  Dndleigh  stood  at  the  window  watch- 
ing the  retreating  fignre  of  his  visitor. 

"  I  wonder  how  long  this  sort  of  thing  can 
go  on?"  he  murnuired.  "I  don't  like  this 
acting  on  the  defensive.  I'll  have  to  make 
the  attack  myself  soon." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

EDITH'S  NKW  FHIICND. 

Every  day  Edith  and  Dndleigh  saw  more 
and  more  of  one  another.  Now  that  the 
crust  of  reserve  was  broken  through,  and 
something  like  intimacy  had  bei'U  reached, 
the  sick  man's  apartment  was  the  most 
natural  place  for  each  to  seek.  It  came  at 
last  that  the  mornings  and  afternoons  were 
no  longer  allotted  to  e.-ich  exclusively,  but 
while  one  watched,  the  other  would  often  be 
present.  In  the  evenings  especially  the  two 
were  together  there. 

The  condition  in  which  Dalton  was  de- 
mnndcd  (piiet,  yet  needed  but  litth*  direct 
attention.  It  was  only  necessary  tliat  some 
one  should  be  in  the  room  with  him.  He 
lay,  as  has  bc^en  said,  in  a  state  of  stupor, 
and  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on.  Il 
was  only  necessary  for  those  who  might  be 
with  him  to  give  him,  fnim  time  to  time,  the 
medicines  that  had  been  prescribed  by  the 
])liysieians,  or  tilt!  nourishment  which  nature 
demanded.  Apart  from  this  there  was  little 
now  to  be  done. 

While  Edith  and  Dndleigh  were  thus  to- 
gether, they  weni  natni'ally  dependent  ex<'iii- 
sively  upon  one  anotlier.  'I'liis  association 
seemed  not  unpitMsant  to  cither  of  them; 
ev(!ry  day  it  gained  a  new  eliMrm;  and  at 
length  both  runw  to  look  forward  to  this  as 
the  chief  pleasuni  of  their  lives,  lor  Edith 
there  was  no  other  com))anion  than  Dinlleigh 
in  Dalton  Mali  with  whimi  she  could  asso- 
ciate on  c(|u;il  terms;  he  bad  strong  claims 
now  on  her  ('(Hitidence,  and  even  on  iier  grat- 
itude; and  while  he  was  tiius  the  only  one 
to  whom  she  emild  look  for  companionship, 
she  also  bore  the  same  relation  to  him. 

There'  was  something  in  the  look  and  in 
the  manner  of  Dndleigh  in  these  interviews 
whi<'h  might  have  moved  a  colder  nature 
than  that  of  Edith.  Wiienevcr  he  entered 
and  greeted  her,  his  face  was  overs]>read  by 
a  radiant  ex)U'ession  (hat  sjioke  of  Joy  ami 
delight.  Whenever  tlicy  met,  his  face  told 
all  (he  feelings  <d"  his  heart.  Yet  never  in 
any  way,  either  by  word  or  act,  did  he  ven- 


ture upon  any  thing  which  might  not  have 
been  witnessed  by  all  the  world.  There 
was  something  touching  in  that  deep  joy  of 
his  which  was  inspired  simply  by  lier  pres- 
ence, and  in  the  peace  and  calm  that  came 
over  him  while  she  was  near.  Elsewhere  it 
wasditferent  with  him.  Whenever  she  hart 
seen  his  face  outside — ami  that  had  been  oft- 
en, for  she  had  often  seen  him  riding  or  walk- 
ing in  front  of  the  windows — she  had  nuirked 
how  care-worn  and  sad  its  expression  was ; 
she  had  marked  a  cloud  of  melancholy  upon 
his  brow,  that  bore  witness  to  sonui  settled 
grief  unknown  to  her,  and  had  read  in  all  the 
lineaments  of  his  features  the  record  which 
some  mysterious  sorrow  had  traced  there. 
Yet  in  her  presence  all  this  departed,  and  the 
eyes  that  looked  on  her  grew  bright  with 
happiness,  and  the  face  that  was  turned  to- 
ward her  was  overspread  with  joy.  Could 
it  be  any  other  than  herself  who  made  this 
change? 

There  was  something  in  tlie  manner  of  this 
man  toward  her  which  was  nothing  less  than 
adoration.  Th(!  delicate  grace  of  his  address, 
the  deep  reverence  of  his  look,  the  intona- 
tions of  his  voice,  tremulous  with  an  emo- 
tion that  arose  fnun  the  profoundest  depths 
of  his  nature,  all  bore  witness  to  this.  For 
w  h(Mi  he  spoke  to  her,  even  abotit  the  most 
trilling  things,  there  »va8  that  in  his  t(Uio 
w  hich  showed  that  the  subject  upon  which 
he  was  s]»eaking  was  nothing,  but  t]u\  one 
to  whom  he  was  sjieaking  was  all  in  all.  Ib^ 
stood  before  her  like  one  with  a  fervid  na- 
ture, intense  in  its  passion,  and  i)rofouml  in 
all  its  emotion,  who  uiuler  a  calm  exterior 
concealed  a  glow  of  feeling  which  burned  in 
his  heart  like  a  consuming  (ire  —  a  feeling 
that  was  kept  under  resti-:iint  by  the  force 
of  will,  but  ..  !<ich,  if  freed  from  restraint  but 
for  one  monieiu,  would  burst  forth  and  liear 
down  all  before  it. 

Weeks  i)assed  away,  but  amidst  all  the  in- 
tinuicy  of  their  association  there  nevi-r  aji- 
jieared  the  slightest  ;ittempt  on  his  p;irt  to 
pass  beyond  the  limits  wliieh  he  had  set  for 
iiinisell'.  Another  man  undei'  such  circum- 
stances might  have  venfm'ed  upon  some- 
thing like  a  greater  familiarity,  hut  with 
this  niiin  there  was  no  such  attempt.  After 
nil  their  interviews  he  still  stood  in  s)iirit 
at  a  distance,  with  the  same  deep  reverence 
in  his  look, and  the  siime  prol'ound  adoration 
in  his  manner,  regarding  her  as  one  might 
H'gard  a  divinity.  For  Dndleigh  stood  afar 
otV,  yet  like  a  worship<'r — far  otV,  as  thonj;!. 
he  deemed  that  divinity  (d"  his  inaet'cssible  — 
yet  none  the  less  did  his  devotion  make  it- 
self uninifest.  All  this  wiis  not  to  lie  seen 
in  his  words,  but  rather  in  his  miinner,  ii>. 
the  exiwessiou  of  his  fac(>,  and  ii,  iin  ;stii- 
tude  of  his  smil,  as  it  became  nninifest  to  her 
whom  he  adored. 

I'or  she  ecudd  not  but  see  it;  in  mntters 
of  this  sort  woman's  eyes  are  keen  ;  but  here 


148 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


any  one  might  have  perceived  the  deep  de- 
votion of  Dudleigh.  The  servants  saw  it, 
and  talked  about  it.  What  was  plain  to 
them  cotdd  not  but  be  visible  to  her.  She 
saw  it — she  knew  it — and  what  then  ?  Cer- 
tainly it  Avas  not  displeasing.  The  homage 
thus  paid  was  too  delicate  to  give  oft'onsc ;  it 
was  of  that  kind  which  is  most  tiattcring  to 
the  heart,  which  never  grows  familiar,  but 
is  insinuated  or  suggested  rather  than  ex- 
pressed. 

It  was  consoling  to  her  lonely  heart  to  see 
one  like  this,  who,  whenever  sjie  appeared, 
would  i)as8  from  a  state  of  sadness  to  one  of  I 
happiness ;  to  see  his  eloquent  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  with  a  devotion  beyond  wonls ;  to 
hear  his  voice,  whicli,  while  it  spoke  the  \ 
commonplaces  of  welcome,  was  yet  in  its 
tremulous  tones  expressive  of  a  meaning  very 
difterent  from  that  which  lay  in  the  words. 
Naturally  enough,  she  was  toijhi'd  by  this 
silent  reverence  which  she  thus  inspired ;  and 
as  she  had  already  found  cause  to  trust  him, 
so  she  soon  came  to  trust  him  still  more. 
She  looked  up  to  him  as  one  with  whom  she 
might  confer,  not  only  with  reference  to  h(^r 
father,  but  also  with  regard  to  the  conduct 
of  the  estate.  Thus  many  varicul  subjects 
grew  up  for  their  consideration,  and  gradu- 
ally the  things  about  which  they  conversed 
grew  more  and  more  personal.  Beginning 
with  Mr.  Ualton,  they  at  last  ended  with 
themselves,  and  Dudleigh  on  many  occa- 
sions found  opportunity  of  advising  Edith 
on  matters  where  her  owu  personal  interest 
or  welfare  was  concerned. 

Thus  their  intinuicy  deepened  constantly 
from  the  very  necessities  of  their  ])osition. 

Then  there  was  the  constant  anxiety  which 
each  felt  and  cxprcs.sed  about  the  health  of 
the  other.  Each  had  urgi-d  the  otlur  to  give 
up  the  allotted  portion  of  attendance.  This 
had  ended  in  both  of  them  keeping  up  that 
attendance  together  for  a  great  part  of  the 
time.  Nevertlieless,  the  subji^ct  of  one  an- 
other's health  still  remained.  Dudleigh  in- 
sisted that  Edith  had  not  yet  recovered, 
that  she  was  nothing  better  than  a  conva- 
lescent, and  tliat  she  ought  not  to  risk  such 
close  confinement.  Edith,  on  the  contrary, 
insisted  that  she  was  able  to  do  far  more, 
and  that  tlie  confinement  was  injuring  him 
far  nuu'e  than  herself.  On  one  occasion  she 
asked  him  what  he  thought  would  beeonie 
of  her  if  he  too  became  ill,  and  the  care  of 
the  two  should  thus  (h^volve  upon  her. 

At  this  remark,  which  escaped  Edith  in 
tlio  excitement  of  an  argument  about  the 
interesting  subject  of  one  another's  Iwalth, 
Dudh'igh's  face  lighted  ujt.  He  looked  at 
her  with  an  exi)ression  (hat  H)tok(>  more 
than  words  could  tell.  Yet  he  said  nothing. 
He  said  nothing  in  words,  but  his  ey<>s  spokt* 
an  intelligible  language,  and  she  could  well 
understand  what  was  thus  expressed. 

What  was  it  that  they  said  f 


O  loved!  and  O  adored  beyond  weak 
words!  O  divinity  of  mine!  th(^y  said.  If 
death  should  bo  the  end  of  this,  then  such 
death  would  be  sweet,  if  I  could  but  die  in 
your  presence!  O  loved  and  longed  for! 
thoy  said.  Between  us  there  is  an  impass- 
able barrier.  I  stand  without;  I  seek  not 
to  break  through ;  but  even  at  a  distance  I 
love,  and  I  adore! 

And  that  was  what  Edith  understood. 
Her  eyes  sank  before  his  gaze.  ,  They  sat  in 
silence  ftir  a  long  time,  and  neither  of  them 
ventured  to  break  that  silence  by  words. 

At  length  Dudleigh  proposed  that  they 
should  both  go  out  for  a  short  time  each  day 
tog(!ther.  This  he  had  hesitat»!d  to  do  on 
account  of  Mr.  Daltcm.  Yet,  after  all,  there 
was  no  necessity  for  them  to  be  there  .al- 
ways. Mr.  Dalton,  in  his  stupor,  was  uncon- 
scious of  their  presence,  and  their  abs(?nce 
could  therefore  make  no  difterence  to  him, 
either  with  regard  to  his  feelings  or  the  at- 
tention which  he  rec(dvcd.  When  Dudleigh 
made  his  proposal,  he  mentioned  this  also, 
and  Edith  saw  at  once  its  truth.  She  there- 
fore consented  quite  readily,  and  with  a 
gratification  that  she  made  no  attempt  to 
coui'cal. 

Why  should  she  not?  She  had  known 
enough  of  sorrow.  Dalton  Hall  had  thus 
far  been  to  her  nothing  else  than  a  jirison- 
house.  Why  should  it  not  atl'ord  her  sonu; 
jdeasure  as  an  offset  to  former  pain?  Here 
was  an  opjxjrtunity  of  obtaining  at  last  some 
conii)ensati()n.  She  could  go  forth  into  the 
bright  free  open  air  undt^r  the  protection 
of  one  whose  loyalty  and  disvotion  had  l)een 
sutliciently  proved.  Could  she  hope  for  any 
plcasant'cr  coni])anion  ? 

Thus  a  new  turn  took  place  in  the  lives 
of  these  two.  The  mornings  they  passed  in 
Mr.  Dalton's  room,  an<l  in  the  afternoons,  ex- 
cept when  therti  was  unpleasant  weather, 
they  went  out  together.  Sometimes  the,v 
strolled  through  the  grouiuls,  down  the  lord- 
ly avenues,  and  dyvt  the  soft  swetit  mead- 
ows ;  at  other  times  they  went  on  horseback. 
The  grouiuls  wer<^  extensive  and  beautiful, 
but  confinement  within  the  park  indosure 
was  attended  with  uni>leasant  memories, 
and   so,  in   the  ordinary  com  things, 

they  naturally  sought  the  wider,  iiocr  world 
outside. 

Tlu>  country  around  Dalton  Hall  was  ex- 
ceedingly beautiful,  and  rich  in  all  those 
peculiar  English  charms  whosts  (luiet  grace 
is  so  attractivt!  to  the  refined  taste.  Edith 
had  never  enjoyed  any  oi)portiiiiity  of  see- 
ing all  this,  and  now  it  opened  before  her 
lik<'  a  new  world.  Formerly,  during  her  long 
im]>risoiiinent,  she  had  learniMl  to  think  of 
that  outside  world  as  one  which  was  full 
of  (>very  thing  that  was  most  delightful; 
tluue  freedom  dwelt ;  and  that  thought  was 
(>noiigh  to  niak<!  it  fair  and  sweet  to  her.  So 
the  prisoner  always  thinks  of  that  which 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


149 


lies  beyond  his  prison  walls,  and  imagines 
that  if  he  were  once  in  that  outer  worUl  he 
■would  be  in  the  possession  of  perfect  hap- 
pin(;ss. 

Horseback  riding  has  advantages  which 
make  it  superior  to  every  other  kind  of  ex- 
ercise. On  foot  one  is  limited  and  restrain- 
ed, for  progress  is  slow ;  and  although  one 
can  go  any  where,  yet  the  pedestrian  who 
wishes  for  enjoyment  must  only  stroll.  Any 
thing  else  is  too  fatiguing.  But  a  small 
space  can  be  traversed,  and  that  only  with 
considerable  fatigue.  In  a  carriage  there  is 
ease  and  comfort ;  but  the  high-road  forms 
the  limit  of  one's  survey ;  to  that  he  must 
keep,  and  not  venture  out  of  the  smooth 
beaten  tiack.  But  on  horseback  all  is  dif- 
ferent. There  one  has  something  of  the 
comfort  of  the  carriage  ard  loaiething  of 
the  freedom  of  the  pedestrian.  Added  to 
this,  there  is  an  exhilaration  in  the  motion 
itself  which  neither  of  the  others  presents. 
The  most  r.apid  pace  can  alternate  with 
the  slowest ;  the  highway  no  longer  forms 
bounds  to  the  journey ;  distance  is  no  obsta- 
cle where  enjoyment  is  concerned ;  and  few 
places  are  inaccessible  which  it  is  desirable 
to  see.  The  generous  animal  which  carries 
his  rider  is  himself  an  additional  element  of 
])lea8nre;  for  he  himself  seems  to  sympa- 
thize with  all  his  rider's  feelings,  and  to  such 
an  extent  that  even  the  solitary  horseman 
is  not  altogether  alone. 

This  was  the  pleasure  which  Edith  was 
now  able  to  enjoy  with  Dudleigh  as  her  com- 
panion, and  the  country  was  oue  which  af- 
forded the  best  opportunity  for  such  exer- 
cise. Dudleigh  was,  as  has  been  said,  a  first- 
rate  horseman,  and  managed  his  steed  like 
one  who  had  been  brought  up  from  child- 
hood to  that  accomplishment.  Editli  also 
had  always  been  fond  of  riding;  at  school 
she  had  been  distinguished  above  all  the 
others  for  her  skill  and  dash  in  tills  respect; 
and  there  were  few  i)laces  where,  if  Dudleigh 
led,  she  would  not  follow. 

All  the  jdeasure  of  this  noble  exercise  was 
thus  enjoyed  by  both  of  them  to  the  fullest 
extent.  There  was  an  exhilaration  in  it 
which  ea('h  felt  eciually.  The  excitement 
of  the  ra])id  gallop  or  the  full  run,  the  (|uiet 
sociability  of  the  slow  walk,  the  peifect 
freedom  of  movement  in  almost  any  direc- 
tion, Wisre  all  appreciated  by  one  as  much 
!i.s  by  the  other.  Then,  too,  the  country  it- 
self was  of  that  character  which  was  best 
:idai>ted  to  give  pleasure.  There  were  broad 
public,  roads,  hard,  smooth,  and  shadowed 
by  ()V('rarcliing  trees — roads  such  as  are  the 
glory  of  England,  and  with  which  no  other 
country  has  any  that  can  compare.  Thtdi 
there  were  by-roads  leading  from  one  pub- 
li(^  road  to  another,  as  smooth  and  as  shad- 
owy as  the:  others,  but  far  more  inviting, 
since  tliey  presented  greater  seclusion  aiul 
scenes  of  more  quiet  picturesque  beauty. 


Here  they  encountered  pleasant  lanes  lead- 
ing through  peaceful  sequestered  valleys, 
beside  gently  flowing  streams  and  babbling 
brooks,  where  the  trees  overarched  most 
grandly  and  the  shade  was  most  refresh- 
ing. Here  they  loved  best  to  turn,  ami  move 
slowly  onward  at  a  pace  best  suited  to  quiet 
observation  and  agreeable  conversatiou. 

Such  a  change  from  the  confinement  of 
Dalton  Hall  and  Dalton  Park  was  unspeaka- 
bly delightful  to  Edith.  She  had  no  anxiety 
about  leaving  her  father,  nor  had  Dudleigh ; 
for  in  his  condition  the  quiet  housekeeper 
could  do  all  that  he  would  require  in  their 
absence.  To  Edith  this  change  was  more 
delightful  than  to  Diulleigh,  since  she  had 
felt  those  horrors  of  imprisonment  which  he 
had  not.  These  rides  through  the  wide  coun- 
try, so  free,  so  unrestrained,  brought  to  her 
a  delicious  sense  of  liberty.  For  the  first 
time  in  many  weary  months  she  felt  that  she 
was  her  own  mistress.  She  was  free,  and  she 
could  enjoy  with  the  most  intense  delight 
all  the  new  jdeasures  of  this  free  and  unre- 
strained existence.  So  in  these  rides  she 
was  always  joyous,  always  gsiy,  and  even  en- 
thusiastic. It  was  to  her  like  the  dawn  of 
a  new  life,  and  into  that  life  she  threw  her- 
self with  an  abandonment  of  feeling  that 
evinced  itself  in  unrestrained  enjoyment  of 
every  thing  that  presented  itself  to  her  view. 

Dudleigh,  lio wever,  was  very  dift'erent.  lu 
him  there  had  always  appeared  a  certain  re- 
s<^:aint.  His  manner  toward  Edith  had  that 
devotion  and  respect  which  have  already 
Ken  described ;  he  was  as  profound  and  sin- 
cere in  his  homage  and  as  tender  in  his  loy- 
alty as  ever:  but  even  now,  under  these  far 
more  favorable  circumstances,  he  did  not 
venture  beyond  the  limits  of  courtesy — those 
limits  which  society  has  established  and  al- 
ways recognizes.  From  the  glance  of  his 
eyes,  however,  from  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and 
!  from  his  whole  mien,  there  could  be  seen  the 
deep  fervor  of  his  feelings  toward  Edith ;  but 
though  the  tones  were  often  tremulous  with 
deep  feeling,  the  words  that  he  spoke  seldom 
expressed  more  than  the  fonnulas  of  polite- 
ness. His  tru(!  meaning  lay  behind  or  be- 
neath his  words.  His  (|uiet  manner  was 
tlien^fore  not  the  sign  of  an  unemotional  na- 
ture, lint  rather  of  strong  passion  reined  in 
and  kei)t  in  check  by  a  jtowerful  will,  the 
sign  and  token  of  a  nature  which  had  com- 
jdete  mastery  over  itself,  so  that  never  on 
any  occasion  could  a  lawless  impulse  burst 
forth. 

These  two  were  therefore  not  uncongenial 
— the  one  with  her  enthusiasm,  her  perfect 
abandon  of  finding,  the  other  with  his  solf- 
conunand,  his  profouiul  devotion.  Their 
tastes  were  alike.  By  a  conmion  impulse 
they  sought  the  same  woodland  paths,  or  di- 
rected their  course  to  Iho  same  i)i('turesque 
scenes;  they  admired  the  same  beautitis,  or 
turned  away  with  equal  indifi'crence  from 


I 


150 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


t-he  commonplace,  the  tame,  or  the  prosaic. 
The  books  which  they  liked  were  generally 
the  same.  No  wonder  that  the  change  was 
a  pleasant  one  to  Edith.  These  rides  began 
to  bring  back  to  her  the  fresh  feeling  of  her 
buoyant  school-girl  days,  and  restore  to  her 
that  joyous  spirit  and  that  radiant  fancy 
which  had  distinguished  her  at  Plyraptou 
Terrace. 

Riding  about  thus  every  where,  these  two 
became  conspicuous.  The  ])ublic  mind  was 
more  puzzled  than  ever.  Those  who  main- 
tained that  Dudleigh  was  an  impostor  felt 
their  confidence  greatly  shaken,  and  could 
only  murmur  something  about  its  being 
done  "  for  effect,"  aud  "  to  throw  dust  into 
the  eyes  of  people;"  while  those  who  be- 
lieved in  him  asserted  their  belief  more 
strongly  than  ever,  and  declared  that  the 
unhappy  differences  which  had  existed  be- 
tween husband  and  wife  had  passed  away, 
uud  terminated  in  a  perfect  recouciliatiou. 


CHAPTER  L. 

A  TEUUIBLE  ADVENTUUK. 

Thus  Dudleigh  and  Edith  found  a  new 
life  opening  before  them ;  and  though  this 
life  was  felt  by  both  to  be  a  temporary  one, 
which  must  soon  come  to  an  end,  yet  eaeli 
seemed  resolved  upon  enjoying  it  to  the  ut- 
most while  it  lasted. 

On  one  of  these  rides  a  remarkable  event 
occurred. 

It  chanced  that  Edith's  horse  dropped  a 
shoe,  and  they  went  slowly  to  the  neart^st 
village  to  have  him  reshod.  Tliey  came  to 
one  before  long,  and  riding  slowly  through 
it,  they  reached  the  farthest  end  of  it,  and 
here  they  found  a  smithy. 

A  small  river  ran  at  this  end  of  the  village 
across  the  road,  and  over  this  there  was  a 
narrow  bridge.  The  smithy  was  built  close 
beside  the  bridge  on  piles  half  over  the  edge 
of  the  stream.  It  faced  the  road,  and,  stand- 
ing in  the  open  doorway,  one  could  see  up 
the  eutire  length  of  the  village. 

Here  they  dismounted,  and  found  the  far- 
rier. Unforttmately  the  shoe  had  been  lost, 
and  the  farrier  had  none,  so  that  ho  had  to 
make  one  for  the  occasion.  This  took  up 
much  time,  and  Edith  and  Dudleigh  strolled 
up  and  down  the  village,  stood  on  the  bridge, 
aud  wandered  about,  frequently  returning  to 
the  smithy  to  see  how  the  work  was  pro- 
gressing. 

The  last  time  they  came  they  found  that 
the  smith  was  nearly  through  his  work. 
They  8too<l  watchiug  him  as  he  was  driving 
in  one  of  the  lost  nails,  feeling  a  kind  of  in- 
dolent curiosity  in  the  work,  when  suddenly 
there  arose  in  the  road  behind  them  a  fright- 
ful outburst  of  shrieks  and  cries.  The  smith 
dropped  the  horse's  foot  and  the  hammer, 


and  started  up.  Dudleigh  and  Edith  also 
turned  by  a  quick  movement  to  see  what  it 
might  be. 

A  teniblo  sight  burst  <ipon  them. 

As  they  lookcid  up  the  village  street,  they 
saw  coming  straight  toward  them  a  huge 
dog,  which  was  being  pursued  by  a  large 
crowd  of  men.  The  animal's  head  was  bent 
low,  his  jaw  dropped,  and  almost  before  they 
fairly  understood  the  meaning  of  what  they 
saw,  he  had  come  close  enough  for  them  to 
distinguish  the  foam  that  dropped  from  his 
jaws,  and  his  wild,  staring,  blood-shot  eyes. 
In  that  moment  they  understood  it.  In  that 
animal,  which  thus  rushed  straight  toward 
them,  and  was  already  so  near,  they  saw  one 
of  the  ruost  terrible  sights  that  can  appear 
to  the  eye  of  man — a  mad  dog ! 

The  smith  gave  a  yell  of  IxMTor,  and  sprang 
to  a  window  that  looked  out  of  the  rear  of 
the  smithy  into  the  stream.  Through  this 
he  tlung  himself,  and  disappeared. 

On  came  the  dog,  his  eyes  glaring,  his 
mouth  foaming,  distancing  all  his  pursuers, 
none  of  whom  were  near  enough  to  deal  a 
blow.  They  did  not  seem  particularly  anx- 
ious to  get  nearer  to  him,  to  tell  the  truth, 
but  contented  themselves  with  hurling 
stones  at  him,  and  shrieking  and  yelling 
from  a  safe  distance  in  his  rear. 

On  came  the  dog.  There  was  no  time  for 
escape.  Quick  as  thought  Dudleigh  Hung 
himself  before  Edith.  There  was  no  time 
to  seize  any  weapon.  He  had  to  face  the 
dog  unarmed,  in  his  own  unassisted  strengtii. 
As  for  Edith,  she  stood  paralyzed  with  uit'T 
horror. 

On  came  the  mad  dog,  and  with  a  horrible 
snajjpinu-  howl,  sprang  straight  at  Dudleigh. 

But  Dudleigh  was  prepared.  As  the  dog 
sjjrang  he  hit  straight  out  at  him  "  from  the 
shoulder,"  aud  dealt  him  a  tremendous  blow 
on  the  throat  with  his  clinched  fist.  The 
blow  hurled  the  animal  over  aiul  over  till 
he  fell  upon  his  back,  and  before  he  could 
regain  his  feet,  Dudleigh  sprang  upon  him 
and  seized  him  by  the  throat. 

He  was  a  large  and  powerful  animal.  He 
struggled  fiercely  in  the  grasp  of  Dudleigh, 
and  the  struggle  was  a  terrific  one.  The 
villagers,  who  had  now  come  up,  stood  ott", 
staring  in  unspeakable  horror,  not  one  of 
them  daring  to  interfere. 

But  the  terror  which  had  at  first  frozen 
Edith  into  stone  now  gave  waj'  to  another 
feeling,  a  terror  quite  as  strong,  but  which, 
instead  of  congealing  her  into  iimction, 
roused  her  to  frenzied  exertion.  Dudleigh's 
life  was  at  stake!  Terror  for  herself  was 
lianUysis  to  her  limbs ;  terror  for  him  was 
tlie  nuulness  of  desperate  exertion  and 
daring. 

She  sprang  toward  one  of  the  by-standers, 
who  had  a  knife  in  his  hand.  his  knife 
she  snatched  from  him,  and  rushed  toward 
Dudleigh.     The  dog  was  still  writhing  in 


his 
in 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


151 


his  furious  strujjRles.  Dudleigh  was  still 
holding;  hini  dowu,  and  clutching  at  bis 
throat  with  death-like  tenacity.  For  a  nio- 
inont  she  paused,  and  tluMi  flinging  herself 
upon  her  knees  at  the  dog's  head,  she  plunged 
the  knife  with  all  her  strength  into  the  side 
of  his  neck. 

It  was  a  mortal  wound ! 

With  a  last  howl,  the  huge  animal  relaxed 
Ids  eiforts,  and  iu  a  few  moments  lay  dead 
iu  the  road. 

Dudleigh  rose  to  his  feet.  There  was  in 
his  face  an  expression  of  pain  and  appre- 
liension.  The  villagers  stood  aloof,  staring 
at  him  with  awful  eyes.  No  word  of  cou- 
gratulatiou  was  spoken.  The  silence  was 
<miinous;  it  was  terrible.  Edith  was  struck 
most  of  all  by  the  expression  of  Dudleigh's 
face,  aud  read  there  what  she  dared  not 
think  of.  For  a  moment  the  old  horror 
which  had  first  seized  upon  her  came  upon 
her  once  more,  paralyzing  her  limbs.  She 
looked  at  him  with  staring  eyes  as  she  knelt, 
aud  the  bloody  knife  dropped  from  her 
nerveless  hands.  But  the  horror  passed, 
and  (Mice  more,  as  before,  was  succeeded  by 
vehement  action.  She  sprang  to  her  feet, 
and  caught  at  his  coat  as  he  walked  away. 

He  turned,  witli  downcast  eyes. 

"O  my  God!"  she  exclaimed,  in  anguish, 
"  you  are  wounded — you  are  bitten — aiul  by 
that — "     She  ccmld  not  finish  her  sentence. 

Dudleigh  gave  her  an  awful  look. 

"You  will  die!  you  Avill  die!"  she  almost 
screamed.  "Oh,  can  not  something  be  done? 
Let  mo  look  at  your  arm.  Oh,  let  mo  exam- 
ine it — let  mo  see  where  it  is!  Show  me — 
tel'  me  what  I  can  do." 

LMidleigh  had  turned  to  enter  the  smithy 
as  Edith  had  arrested  him,  and  now,  stand- 
ing tliere  in  the  doorway,  he  gently  disen- 
gaged himself  from  her  grasp.  Then  he 
took  off  his  coat  and  rolled  up  his  sleeve. 

Edith  had  already  noticed  that  his  coat 
sleeve  was  torn,  and  now,  as  he  took  off  his 
coat,  she  saw,  with  unutterable  horror,  his 
white  shirt  sleeves  red  with  spots  of  blood. 
As  he  ndled  up  that  sleeve  she  saw  the 
marks  of  bruises  on  his  arm ;  but  it  was  on 
one  place  in  particular  that  her  eyes  were 
fastened — a  place  where  a  red  wouiul,  fresh- 
ly made,  showed  the  source  of  the  blood 
stains,  and  told  at  what  a  terrible  price  he 
had  rescued  her  from  the  fierce  boast.  Ho 
had  coiujnered,  but  not  easily,  for  lie  had 
carried  off  this  wound,  and  the  wound  was, 
as  he  knew,  and  as  she  knew,  the  bite  of  a 
mad  dog ! 

Edith  gave  a  low  moan  of  anguish  and  de- 
spair. Slie  took  his  arm  in  her  hands.  Dud- 
loigli  did  not  withdraw  it.  Even  at  that  mo- 
ment of  horror  it  seemed  sweet  to  him  to 
see  these  signs  of  feeling  (m  her  part ;  and 
though  he  did  not  know  what  it  was  that 
she  had  in  her  mind,  he  waited,  to  feel  for  a 
moment  longer  the  clasp  of  those  hands. 


Edith  held  his  arm  iu  her  bands,  and  the 
terrible  wound  fascinated  her  eyes  with 
hoiTor.  It  seemed  to  her  at  that  moment 
that  this  was  the  doom  of  Dudleigh,  the 
stamp  of  his  sure  and  certain  death.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  this  mark  was  the  an- 
nouncement to  her  that  henceforth  Dud- 
leigh was  lost  to  her;  that  ho  must  die — 
die  by  a  death  so  horrible  that  its  horrors 
surpassed  language  and  even  imagination, 
and  that  this  unutterable  doom  had  beeu 
drawn  down  uiion  him  for  her. 

It  had  been  terrible.  Out  of  pleasant 
thoughts  aud  genial  conversation  and  gen- 
tle smiles  and  hap))y  interchange  of  senti- 
ment, out  of  the  joy  of  a  glad  day,  out  of 
the  delight  of  golden  hours  and  sunlight 
aiul  beauty  and  peace — to  be  plunged  sud- 
denly into  a  woe  like  this  I 

There  came  to  her  a  Mild  and  desperate 
thought.  Only  one  idea  was  in  her  mind — 
to  save  Dudleigh,  to  snatch  this  dear  friend 
from  tlie  death  to  which  he  had  flung  him- 
self for  her  sake.  Inspired  by  this  sole  idea, 
there  had  come  a  sudden  thought.  It  was 
the  thought  of  that  royal  wife's  devotion 
who,  when  her  young  husband  lay  dying 
from  the  poisoned  dagger  of  an  assassin, 
drew  the  poison  from  the  wound,  and  thus 
snatched  him  from  the  very  grasp  of  death. 
This  it  was,  then,  that  was  iu  the  mind  of 
Edith,  and  it  was  in  her  agonized  heart  at 
that  moment  to  save  Dudleigh  even  as  El- 
eanor had  saved  Edward. 

She  bent  down  her  head,  till  her  face  was 
close  to  his  arm. 

Dudleigh  looked  on  as  in  a  dream.  He 
did  not  know,  ho  could  not  even  conceive, 
what  she  had  in  her  heart  to  do  for  his  sake. 
It  would  have  seemed  incredible,  had  he  not 
seen  it ;  nor  could  he  have  imagined  it,  had 
he  not  i)eeu  convinced. 

The  discovery  flashed  suddenly,  vividly 
across  his  mind.  He  recognized  in  chat  one 
instant  the  love,  the  devotion,  stronger  than 
death,  which  was  thus  manifesting  itself  in 
that  slight  movement  of  that  adored  one 
by  his  side.  It  was  a  thought  of  sweetness 
unuttera))le,  which  amidst  liis  agony  sent  a 
thrill  of  rapture  through  every  nerve. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment. 

He  gently  withdrew  his  arm.  She  looked 
at  him  rejjroachfully  aud  imploringly.  He 
turned  away  his  face  firmly. 

"Will  you  leave  me  for  a  moment.  Miss 
Dalton  f"  said  he,  in  a  choking  voice. 

He  pointed  to  the  doorway. 

She  did  not  appear  to  understand  him. 
She  stood,  with  her  face  white  as  ashes,  aud 
looked  at  him  with  the  same  expression. 

"  Leave  me — (di,  leave  me,"  he  said,  "  for 
one  moment  I     It  is  not  fit  for  you." 

She  did  not  move. 

Dudleigh  could  wait  no  longer.  His  soul 
was  roused  up  to  a  desperate  purpose,  but 
the  execution  of  that  purpose  could  not  be 


152 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


nn| 
pec 
onti 

noti 
eye| 
wif 

He  I 

knc 

She 

life  I 

Shel 

was 

ble 
anyl 
thisl 
rest  I 


XIIGim   WAS    TUB   HISS    OF   SOMKTIIINU   SCUUCIIIKC. 


delayed.  He  sprang  to  the  fire.  One  of 
the  irons  had  been  imbedded  there  in  the 
glowing  coals.  He  had  seen  this  in  his  de- 
spair, and  h.ad  started  toward  it,  wlien  Edith 
detained  him.  This  iron  be  snatched  out. 
It  was  at  a  white  heat,  dazzUufg  in  its 
glow. 

..In  an  instant  he  plunged  this  at  the 
woiind.  A  low  cry  like  a  nmflHed  gi'oan 
was  wnmfi  (Vom  the  spectators,  who  watch- 
ed the  act  with  eyes  of  utter  horror. 

There  was  the  liiss  of  something  scorching; 
a  sickening  smoke  arose  and  curled  up  about 
his  head,  and  ascended  to  the  roof.  But  in 
the  midst  of  this  Dudleigh  stood  as  rigid  as 
Mucins  Scmvola  under  another  fiery  trial, 
with  the  hand  that  held  the  glowing  iron 
and  the  arm  that  felt  the  awful  torment  as 
steady  as  though  he  liad  been  a  statue  fash- 
ioned in  that  attitude.  Thus  he  fiuished  his 
work. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  few  seconds.  Then 
Dudleigh  turned,  with  his  face  ghastly  white, 
and  big  drops  of  i)er8piration,  wrung  out  by 
that  agony,  standing  over  his  brow.  He 
flung  down  the  iron. 

At  the  same  moment  Edith,  yielding  alto- 
gether to  the  horror  tliat  had  hitherto  over- 
whelmed her,  fell  senseless  to  the  floor. 

By  this  time  some  among  the  crowd  had 
regained  the  use  of  their  faculties,  and  these 
advanced  to  off"er  their  services.  Dudleigh 
was  able  to  direct  them  to  take  Edith  to 
some  shelter,  and  while  thoy  di<l  so  he  fol- 


lowed. Edith  after  some  time  revived.  A 
doctor  was  sent  for,  who  examined  Dud- 
leigh's  arm,  and  praised  him  for  his  prompt 
action,  while  wondering  at  his  daring.  Ho 
bound  it  up,  and  gave  some  general  direc- 
tions. 

Meanwhile  a  messenger  had  been  sent  to 
Dalton  Hull  for  the  carriage.  Edith,  though 
she  had  revived,  hardly  felt  strong  enough 
for  horseback,  and  Dudleigh's  ami  was  suffi- 
ciently painful  to  make  him  prefer  as  great 
a  degree  of  quiet  as  possible.  When  the 
carriage  came,  therefore,  it  was  witli  feel- 
ings of  great  relief  that  they  took  their 
seats  and  prepared  to  go  back.  Nor  was 
their  journey  any  the  less  pleasant  from  the 
fact  that  they  had  to  sit  close  together,  side 
by  side — a  closer  union  than  .any  they  had 
thus  far  known.  It  was  an  eventful  day; 
nor  was  its  conclusion  the  least  so.  But 
little  was  said  during  the  drive  home.  Each 
felt  what  had  been  done  by  the  other.  Edith 
remembered  how  Dudleigh  had  risked  the 
most  terrible,  the  most  agonizing  of  deaths 
to  save  her.  Dudleigh,  on  his  part,  remem- 
bered that  movement  of  hers,  by  which  she 
was  about  to  take  the  poison  from  his  wound 
unto  herself.  The  ai)palliug  event  which 
had  occurred  had  broken  down  all  reserve. 
All  was  known.  Each  knew  that  the  other 
was  dearer  than  all  the  world.  Each  knew 
that  the  other  loved  and  was  loved ;  but  yet 
in  the  midst  of  this  knowledge  there  was  a 
feeling  of  utter  helplessness  arising  from  the 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


183 


Hnpnralleled  position  of  Edith.  It  was  a 
peculiar  and  at  the  same  time  a  perilous 
one. 

In  the  eyes  of  the  world  these  two  were 
nothing  less  than  man  and  wife.  In  the 
eyes  of  the  law,  as  Edith  feared,  she  was  the 
wife  of  Leon  Dudleigh. 

Now  this  man  was  not  Leon  Dndleigh. 
He  was  an  impostor.  Edith  did  not  oven 
know  that  his  name  was  Dudleigh  at  all. 
She  had  never  asked  him  the  secret  of  his 
life ;  he  had  never  volunteered  to  tell  it. 
She  did  not  know  what  his  name  really 
was. 

As  an  impostor,  she  knew  that  he  was  lia- 
ble to  discovery,  arrest,  and  punishment  at 
any  time.  She  knew  that  the  discovery  of 
this  man  would  endanger  herself.  His  ar- 
rest would  involve  hers,  and  she  would  once 
more  be  tried  for  her  life,  as  the  murderer 
of  the  missing  man,  with  the  additional  dis- 
advantage of  having  already  eluded  justice 
by  a  trick.  She  was  liable  at  any  moment 
to  this,  for  the  missing  man  was  still  miss- 
ing, and  it  would  go  doubly  hard  for  her, 
since  she  had  aided  and  abetted  for  so  long 
a  time  the  conspiracy  of  an  impostor. 

Yet  this  impostor  was  beyond  all  doubt  a 
man  of  the  loftiest  character,  most  perfect 
breeding,  and  profoundest  self-devotiou. 
From  the  very  first  his  face  had  revealed  to 
her  that  ho  had  ent(*ed  upon  this  conspiracy 
for  her  sake.  And  ■bice  then,  for  her  sake, 
what  had  he  not  do™? 

Thns,  then,  they  wore  both  in  a  position 
of  peril.  They  loved  one  another  passion- 
ately. But  they  could  not  possess  one  an- 
other. The  world  supposed  them  man  and 
wife,  but  the  law  made  her  the  wife  of  an- 
other, of  whom  it  also  charged  her  with 
being  the  murderer.  Around  these  two  there 
were  clouds  of  darkness,  deep  and  dense,  and 
their  future  was  utterly  obscure. 

These  things  were  in  the  minds  of  both  of 
them  through  that  drive,  and  that  evening 
as  they  walked  about  the  grounds  For 
since  their  mutual  love  had  all  been  (!al- 
ed,  Dudleigh  had  spoken  in  words  what  ho 
had  repressed  so  long,  and  Edith  had  con- 
fessed what  had  already  been  extorted  from 
her.  Yet  this  mutual  confession  of  love, 
with  all  its  attendant  endearments,  had 
not  blinded  them  to  the  dangers  of  their 
position  and  the  difliculties  that  lay  in  their 
way. 

"  I  can  not  endure  this  state  of  things," 
said  Dudleigh.  "  For  your  sake,  as  well  as 
my  own,  Edith  darling,  it  must  bo  brought 
to  an  end.  I  have  not  been  idle,  but  I  have 
waited  to  hear  from  those  who  have  put 
themselves  on  the  track  of  the  man  from 
whom  wo  have  most  to  dread.  One  has  tried 
to  find  some  trace  of  L(  on ;  the  other  is  my 
mother.  Now  I  have  not  heard  from  either 
of  them,  and  I  am  beginning  to  feel  not  only 
impatient,  but  uneasy." 


CHAPTER  LL 

IMPOKTANT  NEWS. 

TirR  position  of  Edith  and  Dudleigh  was 
of  such  a  character  that  further  inaction  was 
felt  to  be  intolerable,  and  it  was  only  the 
hope  of  hearing  from  those  who  were  already 
engaged  in  the  work  tiiat  made  him  capable 
of  delaying  longer.  But  several  events  now 
occurred  which  put  an  end  to  the  present 
state  of  things. 

The  first  of  these  was  a  marked  improve- 
ment in  the  condition  of  Mr.  Dulton.  A  suc- 
cessful operation  perlbrmed  upon  him  had 
the  result  of  restoring  him  to  con.sciousnoss, 
and  after  this  a  general  increase  of  strength 
took  place.  His  intense  joy  at  the  sight  of 
Edith,  and  the  delight  which  he  felt  at  her 
presence  and  the  reception  of  her  loving  and 
tender  care,  all  acted  favorably  upon  him ; 
and  as  the  sorrow  which  he  had  experienced 
had  been  the  chief  cause  of  his  i)rostration, 
so  the  happiness  which  he  now  felt  became 
a  powerful  agent  toward  restoring  him  to 
strength. 

The  joy  of  Edith  was  so  great  that  the 
terror  and  perplexity  of  her  position  ceased 
to  alarm  her.  Her  greatest  grief  seemed 
now  removed,  for  she  had  feared  that  her 
father  might  die  without  ever  knowing  how 
deeply  she  repented  for  the  past  and  how 
truly  she  loved  him.  Now,  however,  he 
would  live  to  receive  from  her  those  tender 
cares  which,  while  they  could  never  in  her 
mind  atone  for  the  wrongs  that  she  had  in- 
flicted upon  him,  would  yet  bo  the  means 
of  giving  some  happiness  to  him  who  had 
suflered  so  much. 

A  few  days  after  her  father's  restoration 
to  consciousness  Dudleigh  received  a  letter 
of  a  most  important  character,  and  as  soon 
as  he  was  able  to  see  Edith  during  the  walks 
that  they  still  took  in  the  afternoon  or  even- 
ing, he  informed  her  with  unusual  emotion 
of  the  fact. 

"  She  writes,"  he  concluded,  "  that  she  has 
got  at  last  on  the  track  of  Leon."  .    > 

"Who?     Your  mother?" 

"  No.  I  have  not  heard  from  my  mother. 
I  mean  Miss  Fortescue." 

"  Miss  Fortescue  ?"  repeated  Edith,  in  some 
surprise, 

"  Yes,"  said  Dudleigh.  "I  did  not  men- 
tion her  before,  because  I  did  not  know  what 
you  might  think  about  it.  But  the  fact  is, 
I  saw  her  after  the  trial  was  over.  She  had 
come  to  give  important  testimony.  She 
came  to  se*^  me,  and  told  me  all  about  it. 
The  iuforniatiou  was  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary kind.  It  appears  that  in  the  course  of 
her  own  iiuiuiries  she  h.ad  heard  some  gossip 
about  a  long  box  which  had  been  put  off  at 
Finsbury  from  the  train.  This  was  called 
for  by  a  teamster,  who  was  accompanied  by 
a  Newfoundland  dog,  who  took  the  box,  and 
drove  away  from  Finsbury  to  Dalton.    Now, 


154 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


as  no  sticli  teamster,  or  box,  or  dopj,  lia<l  been  1 
Keen  in  Dalton,  hIio  be^an  to  siisiicet  that  it 
liad  Horr  -tbinj^  to  do  with  the  reuuiiiis  found 
in  the  well,  and  that  this  wludo  matter  was 
a  malignant  scheme  of  Leon's  to  involve 
you  or  your  father,  or  both,  in  some  calami- 
ty. At  any  rate, she  lierNtlf  went  cautiously 
about,  and  tried  to  investigate  for  lu'rself. 
8ho  had  all  along  felt  convin('(!d  that  Leon 
Avas  alive,  aiul  she  felt  eqmilly  convinced 
that  lie  was  capable  of  any  malignant  act 
for  the  purpose  of  wreaking  his  vengeance 
on  you  or  your  father.  He  had  been  battled 
here,  and  had  sworn  vengeance.  That 
luucli  your  father  t(dd  me  before  the  trial. 

"  So  Miss  Fortescuo  searched  very  careful- 
ly, and  at  length  made  a  very  important  dis- 
covery. A  few  miles  this  side  of  Finsbury 
there  is  a  grove,  through  which  the  Ualton 
Park  wall  runs.  Here  she  happened  to  see 
the  trace  of  heavy  wheels,  and  the  hedge 
which  adjoins  the  wall,  and  is  rather  thin 
there,  seemed  to  have  been  broken  through, 
so  as  to  form  an  opening  wide  enough  to  ad- 
mit a  cart.  Struck  by  this,  she  followed  the 
marks  of  the  wheels  into  the  grove  for  some 
distance,  until  they  stopped.  Here,  to  her 
surprise,  she  saw  close  by  the  Dalton  Park 
wall  an  oblong  box,  jtist  like  the  one  which 
bad  been  described  to  her.  It  was  empty, 
aud  had  beeu  left  here. 

"  Now  why  had  it  been  loft  hero  ?  Miss 
Fortescuo  felt  certain  that  Leon  had  brought 
a  dead  body  in  that  box,  that  he  had  taken 
it  stealthily  into  the  park,  and  thrown  it 
down  into  the  well,  and  then,  not  wishing 
to  be  seen  with  such  a  very  conspicuous 
thing  as  this  box,  he  had  left  it  behind  him. 
She  also  thought  that  he  had  managed  in  a 
seci-et  way  to  start  the  rumors  that  had  pre- 
vailed, and  to  drop  some  hints,  either  by 
anonymous  letters  to  the  sheriti'  or  oth(!r- 
wise,  which  turned  their  attention  to  the 
well.  She  saw  at  once  how  important  this 
testimony  would  be  in  your  favor,  and  , here- 
fore  saw  the  Finsbury  people  who  had  told 
her  of  the  teamster,  and  with  these  she  came 
to  the  trial.  But  when  she  came  she  hoard 
that  the  missing  man  had  returned — and 
saw  me,  you  know." 

At  this  extraordinary  information  Edith 
was  silent  for  some  time. 

"  I  have  often  tried  to  account  for  it,"  said 
she,  "  but  I  could  hardly  bring  myself  to  be- 
lieve that  this  was  his  w<»rk.  But  now  when 
I  recall  his  last  words  to  me,  I  can  ruider- 
stand  it,  and  I  am  forced  to  believe  it." 

"  His  last  words  to  you  V  said  Dudleigh, 
iu  an  inquiring  tone. 

"  Yes,"  said  Edith,  with  a  sigh.  "  The  re- 
membrance of  that  night  is  so  distressing 
that  I  have  never  felt  able  to  speak  of  it. 
Even  the  thought  of  what  I  suttered  then 
almost  drives  mo  wild ;  but  now— and  to 
you,  Reginald — it  is  different,  aud  I  have 
strengtli  to  speak  of  it."* 


As  she  said  this  she  looked  at  him  ten- 
derly, and  Reginald  folded  her  in  his  arms. 
She  then  began  to  give  an  account  of  tliat 
eventful  night,  of  her  long  preparations,  her 
suspense,  her  (h^i)arttire,  until  that  moment 
when  she  saw  that  she  was  pursued.  The 
remainder  only  need  bo  given  here. 

She  had  been  right  ii>  her  conjectures. 
Leon  had  suspected,  or  at  least  had  watch- 
ed, and  discovered  all.  Tlie  moonlight  had 
reveahsd  her  plainly  as  she  stole  acioss  the 
open  area,  and  when  shti  lied  into  the  woods 
the  rustling  and  crackling  had  betrayed  the 
direction  which  she  had  taken.  Thus  it 
was  that  Leon  had  been  able  to  pursnts  her, 
and  his  fust  snnring  words  as  he  came  up 
to  her  made  her  acquainted  with  her  awk- 
wardness. The  trees  were  not  so  close  but 
that  her  figiue  could  be  seen ;  the  moon- 
light streamed  down,  and  disclosed  her 
standing  at  bay,  desperate,  defiant,  with  her 
dagger  uplifted,  and  her  arm  nerved  to 
strike.  This  Leon  saw,  and  being  afraid 
to  venture  close  to  her,  he  held  aloof,  aiul 
tried  to  conceal  his  cowardice  in  taunts  aud 
sneers. 

Edith  said  nothing  for  some  time,  but  at 
last,  seeing  that  Leon  hesitated,  sh(!  d(^ter- 
mined  to  continue  her  flight  iu  spite  of  him, 
and  informed  him  so. 

Upon  this  he  threatened  to  set  the  dog  on 
her. 

"  lie  will  tear  ycm  to  pieces,"  cried  Leon. 
"No  one  will  suspect  that  I  had  any  thing 
to  do  with  it.  Every  body  will  believe  that 
iu  trying  to  run  away  you  were  caught  by 
the  dog." 

This  threat,  however,  did  not  in  the  least 
alarm  Edith.  She  was  not  afraid  of  the  dog. 
She  had  already  gained  the  animal's  aft'ec- 
tions  by  various  little  acts  of  kindness.  So 
now,  in  response  to  Leon's  threats,  sh(!  held 
out  her  hand  toward  the  dog  and  called  him. 
The  dog  wagged  his  tail  and  made  a  few 
steps  forward.  At  this  Leon  grew  infuri- 
ated, and  tried  to  set  him  at  Edith.  But 
the  dog  would  not  obey.  Leon  then  held 
him,  pointing  his  head  toward  Edith,  and 
doing  all  in  his  power  to  urge  him  on.  The 
eftbrt,  however,  was  completely  useless. 
Edith,  seeing  this,  hurried  away.  Leon  rush- 
ed after  her,  followed  by  the  dog,  and  once 
more  she  stood  at  bay,  while  the  same  efforts 
were  repeated  to  set  the  dog  at  her.  This 
was  done  several  times  over.  At  last  Leon 
gave  the  dog  a  terril)le  beating.  Wild  Avith 
indignant  rage  at  his  cowardice,  brutality, 
and  persistent  pursuit,  full  also  of  i)ity  for 
the  poor  animal  Avho  was  suffering  for  love 
of  her,  Edith  sprang  forward  at  Leon  as 
though  she  wouhl  stab  him.  Whether  she 
would  have  done  so  or  not,  need  not  be  said ; 
at  any  rate  her  purpose  was  gained,  for  Leon, 
with  a  cry  of  fear,  started  back. 

Then  standing  at  a  safe  distance,  he 
hurled  at  her  the  most  teixible  threats  of 


veul 

btrJ 

peal 

"I 

"mJ 

kill] 
T 
did  I 
starl 
her. 
himJ 
Avooq 
lengl 
alnnf 
This! 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


ir)5 


vengeance.  Among  all  tlirse  she  remem- 
bered well  one  exi)i-e8»ion,  wLieh  ho  re- 
peated over  and  over. 

"Yon'vo  threatened  my  life!"  ho  cried. 
"  My  life  Hhall  lie  at  your  door,  if  I  have  to 
kill  myself." 

ThiH  ho  said  over  and  over.  Hut  Edith 
did  not  wait  nineh  longtir.  Once  more  she 
started  off,  and  this  time  Leon  did  not  follow 
her.  That  was  the  last  she  saw  or  heard  of 
him.  After  this  she  wandtjnid  about  through 
woods  and  swamps  for  a  long  time,  and  at 
length,  alxnit  the  dawn  of  day,  when  she  had 
almost  lost  all  hope,  sho  came  to  the  wall. 
This  she  clambered  over  by  means  of  her 
rope  and  hook,  and  reaclH^d  the  D  iltou  luu 
in  the  condition  already  described. 

Afterward,  when  sho  heard  that  Leon  was 
missing,  and  when  she  was  confronted  with 
the  remains,  tho  Avholo  horror  of  her  situa- 
tion burst  upon  her  mind.  Her  first  thought 
was  that  ho  had  in  his  desperate  rage  actu- 
ally killed  Iiimself ;  but  tho  absence  of  the 
head  showed  that  this  was  impossible.  There 
remained  after  tliis  a  deep  mystery,  tho  solu- 
tion of  which  sho  could  not  discover,  but  in 
tho  mi<lst  of  which  she  could  not  fail  to  see 
how  terribly  circumstances  bore  against  her. 
8he  wiis  afraid  to  say  any  thing.  Sho  knew 
tliat  if  she  told  all  she  would  bo  believed 
but  in  part.  If  she  confessed  that  sho  had 
seen  him,  and  had  quarreled  with  him  on 
that  night,  then  all  men  would  conclude  that 
she  had  also  mur<lered  him  so  as  to  escape. 
She  saw  also  how  hopeless  it  was  to  look  for 
any  testimony  in  her  favor.  Every  thing 
was  against  her.  13eing  in  ignorance  of  her 
father  and  Lady  Dudleigli,  she  had  supposed 
that  they  would  bo  most  rehsntless  of  all  in 
doing  her  to  death ;  and  tho  excitement  of 
tho  latter  over  the  loss  of  Leon  was  never 
suspected  by  her  to  bo  tho  frenzied  grief  of 
a  mother's  heart  over  a  sudden  and  most 
agoui/.ing  bereavement. 

But  now  .all  these  things  wore  plain.  An- 
other shared  her  secret — one,  too,  who  would 
lay  down  his  life  for  her — and  the  efforts  of 
Miss  Fortescue  had  resulted  in  suggesting 
to  her  mind  a  new  solution  of  tho  mystery. 

After  the  natural  comments  which  were 
elicited  by  Edith's  strange  story,  Regiuiild 
showed  her  the  letter  which  he  had  received 
from  Miss  Fortescue.  It  was  not  very  long, 
nor  was  it  very  delinite.  It  mcirely  iufonucd 
him  that  sho  had  reason  to  believi;  that  sho 
had  at  last  got  upon  the  track  of  Leon ;  and 
requested  him  to  come  to  her  at  once,  as 
there  was  danger  of  losing  this  opportunity 
if  there  was  any  delay.  She  appointed  a 
place  at  which  sho  would  meet  him  three 
days  from  tho  date  of  tho  letter,  whore  she 
would  wait  several  days  to  allow  for  all  do- 
lay  in  his  recei)tion  of  the  letter.  The  place 
which  she  mentioned  was  known  to  Regi- 
nald as  the  nearest  station  ou  the  railway 
to  Dudleigh  Manor. 


"This  must  decide  all,"  said  Reginald. 
"  They  an<  ]ilaying  a  desperate  ganu),  and  the 
part  which  nuist  be  done  by  my  mother  and 
myself  is  a  terrible  one.  If  we  fail  in  this, 
we  may  have  to  fly  at  once.  Hut  if  I  can 
oidy  see  Leon  once,  so  as  to  drag  him  before 
the  world,  and  show  that  he  is  alive — if  I 
I  can  only  save  yon,  darling,  from  your  terri- 
ble position,  then  I  can  bear  otlier  evils  in 
patience  for  a  time  longer." 

"  Yon  have  heard  nothing  from  your  moth- 
er, then  ?"  said  Edith. 

"No,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh.  "And  I  feel 
anxious— terribly  anxicuis.  I  was  very  un- 
willing for  her  to  go,  and  warned  her  against 
it;  but  she  was  determined, and  her  reasons 
fordoing  so  were  unanswerabh;;  still  I  feel 
terribly  alarmed,  for  Sir  Lionel  is  a  man  who 
would  stop  at  nothing  to  get  rid  of  one  whom 
he  thinks  is  the  only  witness  against  him." 


XIIEY   WERi;   STARXr.KD   IIY   THE   AI'l'JiUACH 
OF   SEVERAL  MEN." 


CHAPTER  LII. 

TIIK  STOUV  OF  FHKDKIiICK  DAMON. 

Aftkk  Dudh'igli's  dei)arture  Edith  was 
left  more  exclusively  with  her  father,  and 
had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that  under 
her  tender  care  he  grew  stronger  and  more 
happy  every  day.  In  the  long  conlidences 
between  these  two,  who  had  once  been  so 
separated,  all  was  gr.idually  explained,  and 
Edith  learned  not  only  the  whole  truth 
about  that  calamity  which  had  befallen  him 
in  early  life,  but  also  the  reason  of  that  once 
inexplicable  policy  which  he  had  chosen  with 
regard  to  Lerself. 


166 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Lionel  Dndleigh  and  ho  ha<l  been  fticnds 
from  boyhood,  tlionjjh  the  weak  and  lavish 
character  of  the  former  liad  gradnaliy  pnt 
them  upon  divergent  lines  of  life,  wliich 
even  Lionel's  marriage  with  hia  sister,  Clau- 
dine  Dalton,  could  not  bring  together  again. 
For  Lionel  liad  fallen  into  evil  ccnirscs,  and 
had  taken  to  the  coiunion  road  of  ruin — the 
turf;  and  though  it  had  been  hoped  that 
his  marriage  would  work  a  reformation,  yet 
those  hopes  had  all  proved  unfounded.  Years 
passed.  Two  children  were  born  to  Lionel 
Dndleigh — Reginald  and  Leon ;  yet  not  even 
the  cousiderations  of  their  future  welfare, 
which  usually  have  weight  with  the  most 
corrui>t,  were  sufiiciently  powerful  to  draw 
back  the  transgressor  from  his  bad  career. 

Ho  became  terribly  involved  in  debt. 
Twice  already  his  debts  had  been  paid,  but 
this  third  time  his  father  would  assist  him 
no  longer.  His  elder  brother,  then  heir  to  the 
estate,  was  equally  inexorable ;  and  Freder- 
ick Dalton  was  the  one  who  came  forward  to 
save  his  sister's  husbaud  and  his  old  friend 
from  destruction. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  Lionel  was  not 
frank  with  Dalton.  Perhaps  ho  was  afraid 
to  tell  him  the  whole  amount  of  his  debts, 
for  fear  that  Dalton  would  refuse  to  do  any 
thing.  At  any  rate,  whatever  the  cause 
was,  after  Dalton  had,  as  he  supposed,  set- 
tled every  thing,  Lionel  was  jjressed  as  hard 
as  ever  by  a  crowd  of  creditors,  whom  this 
partial  settlement  had  only  rendered  the 
more  ravenous. 

Pressed  hard  by  one  of  these,  the  wretch- 
ed man  had  forged  a  check  on  the  Liverpool 
banker,  Mr.  Henderson,  and  this  check  he 
had  inclosed  in  a  letter  to  Frederick  Dalton, 
requesting  him  to  get  the  money  and  pay 
one  or  two  debts  which  he  specilied.  This 
Dalton  did  at  once,  withoiit  hesitation  or 
suspicion  of  any  sort. 

Then  came  the  discovery,  swift  and  sud- 
den, that  it  was  a  forgery.  But  one  feel- 
ing arose  in  Dalton's  mind,  and  that  was  a 
desire  to  save  Lionel.  He  hurried  oflf  at 
once  to  see  him.  The  wretched  man  con- 
fessed all.  Dalton  at  once  went  to  Liver- 
pool, where  he  saw  Mr.  Henderson,  and  tried 
to  save  his  friend.  He  came  away  from  that 
interview,  however,only  to  make  known  to 
Lionel  the  banker^Wwtiuacy  and  resolution 
to  have  vengeance. 

Dalton's  solicitor  in  Liverpool  was  Mr. 
John  Wiggins.  Lionel's  presence  in  Liver- 
pool was  not  known  to  any  one  but  Dalton. 
He  had  seen  Wiggins  once,  and  persuaded 
Lionel  to  see  him  also,  to  which  the  latter 
consented  only  with  extreme  difHculty.  The 
interview  never  took  place, however, nor  was 
Wiggins  aware  of  Lionel's  presence  in  Liver- 
pool, or  of  his  guilt.  Then  the  murder  took 
place,  and  the  paper  was  found  which  crim- 
inated Dalton,  who  was  at  once  arrested. 

Dalton  was  thunder-struck,  not  so  much 


at  his  own  arrest  as  at  the  desperation  of 
his  friend  and  his  utter  baseness.  Hi;  knew 
perfectly  well  who  the  nnirderer  was.  The 
Maltese  cross  which  had  been  fonnil  was 
not  necessary  to  show  him  this.  No  other 
man  could  have  had  any  motive,  and  no 
other  man  could  have  thought  of  mention- 
ing his  name  in  connection  with  the  ter- 
rible deed.  It  was  thus  that  Dalton  found 
himself  betrayed  in  the  foulest  manner, 
through  no  other  cause  than  his  own  gener- 
osity. 

The  horror  of  Mrs.  Dndleigh  on  hearing 
of  her  brother's  arrest  was  excessive.  She 
went  off  at  once  to  see  hinj.  Ev(!n  to  her 
Dalton  said  nothing  about  Lionel's  guilt, 
for  he  wished  to  spare  her  the  cruel  bio;? 
which  such  intelligence  would  give. 

The  feeling  that  now  animated  Dalton 
can  easily  be  explained.  In  the  first  place, 
knowing  that  he  was  innocent,  he  had  not 
the  faintest  doubt  that  he  would  be  acquit- 
ted. Ho  believed  that  where  there  was  no 
guilt,  no  such  thing  as  guilt  could  bo  proved. 
He  relied  also  on  his  well-known  reputation. 

Feeling  thus  confident  of  his  own  inno- 
cence, and  certain  of  acquittal,  ho  had  only 
to  ask  himself  what  he  ought  to  do  with  ref- 
erence to  liionel.  Strict  justice  demanded 
that  he  should  tell  all  that  ho  knew ;  but 
there  were  other  considerations  besides  strict 
justice.  There  was  the  future  of  Lionel 
himself,  whom  he  wished  to  spare  in  spite 
of  his  baseness.  More  than  this,  there  wa« 
his  sister  and  his  sister's  children.  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  inform  against  the 
guilty  husband  and  father,  and  thus  crush 
their  innocent  heads  under  an  overwhelm- 
ing load  of  shame.  He  never  imagined  that 
he  himself,  and  his  innocent  wife  and  his 
innocent  child,  would  have  to  bear  all  that 
which  he  shrank  from  imposing  upon  the 
wife  and  children  of  Lionel. 

The  trial  went  on,  and  then  came  forth 
revelations  which  showed  all  to  Mrs.  Dnd- 
leigh. That  Maltese  cross  w.is  enough.  It 
was  the  key  to  the  whole  truth.  She  saw 
her  brother,  and  asked  him.  He  was  silent. 
Frantic  with  grief,  she  hurried  back  to  her 
husband.  To  her  fierce  reproaches  he  an- 
swered not  a  word.  Slie  now  proceeded  to 
Liverpool.  Her  brother  entreated  her  to 
be  calm  and  silent.  He  assured  her  that 
there  was  no  possible  danger  to  himself, 
and  implored  her,  for  the  sake  of  her  chil- 
dren, to  say  nothing.  She  allowed  herself 
to  be  convinced  by  him,  and  to  yield  to  en- 
treaties uttered  by  the  very  accused  himself, 
and  in  the  name  of  her  children.  She  be- 
lieved in  his  innocence,  and  could  not  help 
sharing  his  confidence  in  an  acquittal. 

That  acquittal  did  come — by  a  narrow 
chance,  yet  it  did  come ;  but  at  once,  to  the 
consternation  of  both  brother  and  sister,  th«! 
new  trial  followed.  Here  Dalton  tried  to 
keep  np  his  confidence  as  before.    His  coun- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


187 


H(!l  implored  liini  to  help  tlicm  in  nialfin^ 
liiH  dcftiiiHo  by  ttilliuK  tlicm  wliat  ln>  liimw, 
but  Dulton  remained  fatally  obtttinutu. 
Priuidly  eontidin^  in  hi.s  innoceneo,  nnd 
trnstinj^  to  liiH  blamelesH  life,  he  still  hesi- 
tated to  do  what  he  considered  an  uet  of 
mereiicHs  erntdty  to  his  sister,  and  ho  still 
persuaded  her  also  to  silence,  and  still  proph- 
esied his  own  aciiuittal,  and  the  rescue  of 
her  husband  and  children  from  ruin.  Part 
of  his  ))rophecy  was  fullilled.  The  husband 
and  children  of  the  sister  were  indettd  saved, 
but  it  was  at  the  expense  of  the  iuuoceut 
and  devoted  brother. 

The  eflect  was  terrible.  Dalton  heard  of 
his  wife's  illin^ss.  He  liad  writt(!n  to  her 
before,  full  of  eonlidenee,  and  tryinju;  to  cheer 
her  ;  but  from  the  lirst  Mrs.  IJalton  had  look- 
ed for  the  worst ;  not  that  she  supposed  her 
husband  could  possibly  be  otherwise  than 
innocent,  but  sim]>ly  because  she  was  timid 
and  afraid  of  the;  law.  She  had  f^ood  reason 
to  fear.  Word  was  brought  to  Dalton  that 
she  was  dying,  and  then  the  uowa  came  that 
she  was  dead. 

Meanwliile  Mrs.  Dndleigh,  more  frenzied 
than  ever.  Hew  to  see  her  husband.  She 
found  that  he  had  gone  to  the  Continent. 
She  pirsued  him,  and  reached  him  in  Italy. 
Here  she  called  upon  him  to  confess  his 
guilt,  and  save  his  innocent  friend.  He  re- 
fused. He  dared  not.  She  threatened  to 
denounce  him.  He  fell  at  her  feet  and  im- 
plored her  mercy  in  the  name  of  their  chil- 
dren. He  entreated  her  to  wait,  to  try  other 
means  first,  to  get  a  new  trial — any  thing. 

Mrs.  Dudleigh's  threats  to  inform  against 
him  were  easy  to  make,  yet  not  so  easy  to 
carry  out.  Turning  from  her  husbaiul  in 
horror,  she  returned  to  England  with  the 
fixed  intention  of  telling  every  thing.  His 
letter  to  Ualton  could  have  been  shown,  and 
the  Maltese  cross  could  have  proved  who 
the  murderer  was.  IJut  Mrs.  Dudleigh's 
courag<!  faltered  when  she  reached  lier  home 
and  saw  her  children.  Already  she  had 
heard  of  Mrs.  Daltou's  death ;  already  she 
knew  well  that  Edith  Dalton  was  doomed 
to  inherit  a  name  of  shame,  a  legacy  of  dis- 
honor, and  that  she  alone  could  now  avert 
this.  But  to  avert  tliis  she  must  doom  her 
own  children.  Had  it  been  herself  only  and 
her  guilty  husband,  it  would  have  been  easy 
to  be  just ;  but  here  were  her  children  stand- 
ing in  the  way  and  keeping  her  back. 

Her  struggles  were  agou'  "ing.  Time  passed 
on  ;  the  delay  was  fatal.  Time  i)a8sed,  and 
the  distracted'  mother  conld  not  make  up  her 
miud  to  deal  out  ruin  and  shame  to  her  chil- 
dren. Time  passed,  and  Dalton  was  taken 
away  to  that  far-distant  country  to  which 
he  had  been  sentenctnl — transported  fi)r  life. 

Other  changes  also  took  place.  Lionel's 
father  and  elder  brother  both  died  within  a 
short  time  of  one  another,  leaving  him  heir 
to  the  estate  and  the  baronetcy.     Ho  was 


now  Sir  Lionel  Dndleigh,  and  she  was  Lady 
Dndleigh;  and  her  bn)ther  —  the  pure  in 
heart,  the  noble,  the  devoted — what  and 
where  was  ho  f 

The  struggle  was  ter.-ihle,  and  she  conld 
not  deciide  it.  It  seeme<l  abhorrent  for  her 
to  rise  up  and  tlenounce  her  husband,  even 
to  save  her  brother.  She  could  not  do  it, 
Itut  sli((  did  what  she  (Mtuld.  She  wrote  her 
husband  a  letter,  bidding  him  farewell,  and 
imploring  him  to  confess  ;  took  her  son  Reg- 
inald, the  eldest,  leaving  behind  the  youn- 
ger, Leon,  nnd  pn-pared  to  go  to  her  brother, 
hoping  that  if  she  could  not  save  him,  she 
might  at  least  alleviate  his  sorrows.  She 
took  with  her  Hugo,  a  faithful  old  servant 
of  the  Dalton  faiiuly,  and  with  him  and 
Kegimild  went  to  Australia. 

Mt-anwhile  Dalt(ui  had  been  in  the  conn- 
try  for  a  year.  Kcdore  leaving  he  had  not 
been  unnundfiil  of  others  v\v\i  in  that  diro 
extremity.  He  had  only  one  thought,  and 
that  was  his  chihl.  He  had  learned  that 
Miss  Plympton  had  takiMi  her,  and  ho  wrote 
to  her,  urging  her  never  to  tell  Edith  her 
father's  story,  and  never  to  let  the  world 
know  that  she  was  his  daughter.  He  ap- 
pointed Wiggins  agcuit  for  his  estates  and 
guardian  of  Edith  before  he  left ;  and  having 
thus  secured  her  interests  for  the  present,  ho 
went  to  meet  his  fate. 

In  Sydney  he  was  treated  very  dift'erently 
from  the  common  convicts.  Criminals  of 
all  classes  were  sent  out  there,  and  to  the 
better  sort  largo  privileges  were  allowed. 
Dalton  was  felt  by  all  to  ho  a  man  of  the 
I  latter  kind.  His  dignitied  bearing,  his  pol- 
ish and  retinement,  together  with  the  well- 
known  fact  that  ho  had  so  resolutely  main- 
tained his  innocence,  all  excited  sympathy 
and  respect. 

When  Lady  Dndleigh  arrived  there  with 
Hugo  and  her  son,  she  soon  found  out  this, 
and  this  fact  enabled  her  to  carry  into  exe- 
cution a  plan  which  she  had  cherished  all 
along  during  the  voyage.  Sho  obtained  a 
sheep  farm  about  a  huiulred  miles  away,  ap- 
plie(l  to  the  autlKU'ities,  and  was  al)le  to  hire 
Dalton  as  a  servant.  Taking  him  in  this 
caj)acity,  she  went  with  him  to  the  sheep 
farm,  where  Hugo  and  Reginald  also  accom- 
panied them.  One  more  was  afterward  add- 
ed. This  was  the  man  "  Wilkins,"  who  had 
been  sentenced  to  transportation  for  poach- 
ing, and  had  come  out  in  the  same  ship  with 
Dalton.  Lady  Dndleigh  obtained  this  man 
also,  under  Daltou's  advice,  and  he  ultimate- 
ly proved  of  great  assistance  to  them. 

Here  in  this  place  years  passed  away. 
Daltou's  only  thought  was  of  his  daughter. 
The  short  formal  notes  which  wore  signed 
"John  Wiggins,"  all  came  from  him.  Ho 
could  not  trust  himself  to  do  any  more.  The 
sweet  childish  letters  which  she  wrote  onco 
or  twice  he  kept  next  his  heart,  and  cher- 
ished as  more  precious  tivMi  any  earthly 


158 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


possession,  l)ri  «lare(l  not  answer  for  fear 
lest  he  mif^lit  break  that  profound  secret 
which  ho  wished  to  be  maintained  between 
her  and  himself — her,  the  i)ure  young  girl, 
himself,  the  dishonored  outcast.  So  the 
years  passed,  and  he  watche<l  her  from  afar 
in  his  tluinghts,  and  every  year  he  thought 
of  her  age,  and  tried  to  imagine  what  she 
looked  like. 

During  these  years  there  was  rising  among 
them  another  spirit — a  character — whose 
force  was  destined  to  change  the  fortune  of 
all. 

This  w.as  Reginald. 

From  the  lirst  he  had  known  the  whcde 
story — more  than  Leon  had  known.  Lc(m 
had  known  his  father's  guilt  and  Dalton's 
innocence,  but  Reginald  had  been  the  eon- 
lidaut  of  his  mother,  the  witness  of  her  grief 
and  her  despair.  He  had  lived  with  Dal- 
ton,  and  y(!ar  after  year  had  been  the  wit- 
ness of  a  Hpectaclo  which  never  ceased  to 
excite  the  deepest  emotion,  that  of  an  inno- 
cent man,  a  just  man,  surtering  wrongfully 
on  behalf  of  another.  His  own  father  he 
had  leari'c;!  to  regard  with  horror,  while  all 
the  en  hnsiastic  h)vo  of  his  warm  young 
heart  had  fixed  itself  upon  the  man  who 
had  doiu!  all  this  for  anothiir.  He  knew  for 
whom  Daltou  had  suffered.  It  was  for  his 
mother,  and  for  himself,  and  he  knew  that 
ho  was  every  day  living  on  the  sufferings 
and  the  woe  of  this  broken-hearted  friend. 
Gradually  other  motives  arose.  He  was  a 
witness  of  Dalton's  profoup'l  and  all-absorl)- 
ing  love  for  his  daughter,  and  his  passionate 
desire  to  save  her  from  all  knowledge  of  his 
own  shann?.  To  Reginald  all  this  grew 
more  and  more  intolerable.  He  now  saw 
the  worst  result  of  all,  and  he  felt  that  while 
his  own  father  had  thrown  upon  his  friend 
his  load  of  infamy,  so  he  himself,  the  son, 
was  throwing  upon  Edith  Daltou  all  that  in- 
herited infamy. 

At  last  his  resolution  was  taken.  Ho  in- 
formed his  mother.  Slie  had  been  aware  of 
his  struggles  of  soul  for  years,  and  did  not 
oppose  him.  Indeed,  she  felr  some  relief. 
It  was  for  the  sou's  sake  that  she  had  falter- 
ed when  Justice  demanded  her  action.  Now 
that  sou  had  grown  to  be  a  calm,  strong,  res- 
olute man,  and  he  had  decided. 

Yes,  the  decisiou  was  a  final  one.  Not 
one  objection  was  disri'garded.  Every  thing 
was  considered,  and  the  resolution  was,  at  all 
hazards,  and  at  every  cost,  to  do  right.  That 
resolution  involved  the  accusation,  the  tri- 
al, the  eondi'uniation,  the  infamy — yes,  fjie 
death — of  a  hiisbiind  anda  father;  but  even 
at  that  cost  it  was  the  resolve  of  Reginald 
that  this  filing  sliould  lie. 

The  jtlan  of  escajie  occupied  far  less  time. 
Daltou  ol)j('cted  at  first  to  the  wiiole  thing, 
but  Reginald  had  oidy  to  ment  ion  to  him  his 
daughter's  niimii  to  induce  him  to  concur. 

After  this  it  was  given  out  that  Freder- 


ick Dalton  had  died.  This  statement  was 
received  i»y  *be  authorities  without  suspi- 
cion or  examination,  thcigh  the  conspira- 
tors were  prepared  for  both. 

Then  Frederick  Dalton,  under  an  assumed 
name,  accompanied  by  Hugo,  went  to  Sy<!- 
ney,  where  ho  end)arked  for  England.     No 
one  recognized  him.     He  had  changed  utter- 
ly.     Grief,  despair,  and  time  had  wrought 
this.    Reginald  and  his  mother  went  by  an- 
!  other  ship,  a  little  later,  and  had  no  diflicul- 
I  ty  in  taking  Wilkins  with  them.     They  all 
reached  England  in  safety,  and  met  at  a  place 
j  agreed  upon  beforehand,  where  their  future 
action  was  arranged. 

I      On  the  voyage  home  Dalton  had  decided 
I  upon  that  policy  which  he  afterward  sought 
I  to  carry  out.     It  was,  first  of  all,  to  live  in 
j  the  utmost  seclusion,  and  conceal  himself 
j  as  far  as  possible  from  every  eye.    A  person- 
I  al  encoiniter  with  some  old  ac(iuaintance, 
I  wlio  failed  to  recognize  him,  convinced  him 
that  the  danger  of  his  secret  being  discov- 
j  ered  was  very  small.     His  faithful  solicitor, 
John  Wiggins,  of  Liverpool,  would  not  be- 
j  lieve  that  the  gray-haired  and  venerable 
I  nnin  who  caun;  to  him  was  fla*  ntan  whom 
he  professed  to  be,  until  Dalton  and  Regi- 
nald had  proved  it  by  showing  the  letters. 
,  and  by  other  things.    Uy  John  Wiggins's  sug- 
i  gestion  Dalton  assumed  the  name  of  Wig- 
]  gins,  and  gave  himsc^lf  out  to  l>e  a  brother  of 
[  the  Liverpool  solicitor.     No  one  suspected, 
'  and  no  fiucstions  were  asked,  and  so  D.tlton 
I  went  to  Daltou  Hall  under  t\u'  mime  of  Wig- 
'  gins,  while  Lady  Dudleigh  went  as  Mrs.  Dun- 
I  bar,  to  be  housekeei)er ;  and  their  domestics 
were  only  Hugo  and  Wilkins,  wlio.e  fidelity 
i  was  known  to  be   incorruptible,  and  who 
,  were,  of  course,  intimately  accpuiinted  with 
the  secret  of  their  master. 

Here  Dalton  took  up  his  abode,  whilt^  .John 
Wiggins,  of  Liverpool.  ))egan  to  set  in  nu)tion 
the  train  of  events  wiiicli  should  end  in  the 
accomplishment  of  justice.    First,  it  was  nec- 
essary fo  procure  from   the  authorities  all 
the  documentary  and  other  evidence  which 
j  h-'l  been  ac(|uired  ten  years  before.     S -v- 
I  erai  things  were  essential,  and  above  all  the 
j  Maltese  cross.      But  English  law  is  slow, 
and  these  things  re(|uire(l  time. 

It   was  the  intention  of  Dalton  to  hav(> 
every  thing  in  icadiness  tiist.antl  then  send 
Keginalil  and  Lady  Dudleigh  to  Sir  Lionel 
to  try  the  force  of  a  personal  ap|»eal.      If  by 
j  threats  or  any  other  means  they  could  per- 
,  suade  him  to  confess,  he  was  to  be  allowed 
time  to  lly  to  some  safe  i)lac(>,  or  fake  any 
oilier  conrs(i  which  he  deeincd  nioHt  consist- 
ent with  his  safety.      Dalton   liiinsc.  '  was 
,  not  to  aiiiieiir,  Init  to  iireserve  his  tiiH'r<'t  in- 
violable.    If  Sir  Lionel  should  )U'ove  ini|)rac- 
!  ti<'able,  then  the  charge  and  ani'st  sluuild 
take  place  at  once;  whrther  for  forgery  or 
,  innrder  was  not  decided.      That  should  be 
;  left  to  Reginald's  owu  choice.     They  leaned 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


159 


to  mercy,  however,  and  preferred  the  charge 
of  forgery.  Sir  Lionel  was  mistaken  in  snp- 
posing  Lady  Dudh-igh  to  be  the  only  wit- 
ness against  him,  for  Reginald  had  been  pres- 
ent at  more  than  one  interview  between  the 
frenzied  wife  and  the  guilty  hnsbancl.  and 
had  heard  his  father  confess  the  whole. 

Bnt  the  regnlar  progre.ss  of  atl'airs  had 
been  altogether  interrupted  'ly  the  sndden 
ajipearanee  of  Edith.  On  reaching  Dalton 
Hall  Mr.  Dalton  had  felt  an  uncontrollable 
eagerness  to  see  her,  and  had  written  to  Miss 
Plynipton  the  letter  already  reported.  He 
did  not  expect  that  she  would  come  so  soon. 
He  tliought  that  she  would  wait  for  a  time; 
that  he  would  get  an  answer,  and  arrange 
every  thing  for  her  reception.  As  It  was,  she 
came  at  once,  witliout  any  a!inounccment, 
accomi)aniedby  Mi8sPlym]>ton  andhermai<l. 

For  years  Dalton  had  been  kei)t  alive  by 
tlu!  force  of  out  feeling  alone — his  love  for 
his  daughter.  Out  of  tin;  very  intensity  of 
his  love  for  her  arose  also  anotlnir  feeling, 
equally  intense,  and  that  was  the  desire  to 
clear  his  name  from  all  stain  before  Tueeting 
with  her.  At  first  lie  had  intended  to  re- 
frain from  seeing  her,  but,  being  in  England, 
and  so  near,  his  desire  for  her  was  nncon- 
trollalde.  Keginald  had  gone  for  a  tonr  on 
the  Continent.  Tlie  Hall  was  lonely;  e\('ry 
room  brought  back  the  memory  of  his  lost 
wife,  and  of  that  little  Edith  wiio,  years  be- 
fore, used  to  wander  about  these  lialls  and 
amidst  these  scenes  with  him.  He  eonld 
not  endure  this  (Miforced  separation,  and  so 
he  wrote  as  ho  did.  He  expecteil  he  scarce- 
ly new  what.  He  had  a  vague  idea  that 
though  he  refused  to  nnike  himself  known, 
that  she  nevertheless  might  divine  it,  or 
else,  out  of  sonu-.  mysterious  (ilijil  instinct, 
might  love  liim  under  liis  assumed  name  as 
fervently  as  though  there  was  no  conceal- 
ment. 

When  slie  came  so  suddenly,  he  was  taken 
by  surprise.  He  longed  to  see  her,  bnt  was 
afraid  to  admit  her  companions;  and  so  it 
was  that  his  daughter,  in  whom  his  life  was 
now  liouHfl  up,  was  almost  turned  away  from 
her  father's  gates. 

Then  followed  h<T  life  at  l)alt(m  Hall. 
Dalton,  afraid  of  the  outside  world,  afrai(l 
to  be  discovered,  after  having  done  so  nnnli 
for  safety,  at  the  veiy  time  when  deliver- 
ance seemed  near,  looked  with  terror  upon 
Edith's  impatience.  He  risked  an  interview. 
He  came  full  of  a  father's  holiest  love,  yet 
full  of  the  iMUpose  of  his  life  to  redeem  tlie 
Dalt(ui  nauK^  for  her  sake.  He  met  with 
scorn  and  hate.  From  those  interviews  he 
retircil  with  his  heart  wrung  by  an  anguish 
greater  than  any  that  he  liad  cmt  known 
befoi'e. 

And  so  if  went  on.  It  was  forherown  sake 
thai  he  lestraiued  her;  yet  he  cmdd  not  tell 
her,  for  he  had  set  his  heart  on  not  reveal- 
ing himself  till  he  coidd  do  so  with  an  un- 


stained name.  Bnt  he  had  made  a  mistake 
at  the  very  outset  from  his  iuipatieut  desire 
to  see  her,  and  he  was  doomed  to  see  the 
results  of  that  mistake.  Miss  Plymptoii  was 
turned  away,  and  forthwith  .appealed  to  Sir 
Lionel.  The  result  of  this  was  that  Leou 
came.  Leon  recognized  Wilkins,  and  could 
not  be  kept  out.  He  did  not  know  Dalton, 
but  knew  that  he  was  not  the  man  whom 
he  professed  to  be,  and  his  suspicions  were 
aroused.  On  seeing  Dalton  he  assumed  u 
high  tone  toward  him,  which  he  maintained 
till  the  last.  Lady  Dudleigh's  emotion  at 
the  sight  of  Leon  was  a  sore  embarra.ssmc'it, 
and  all  Dalton's  ))lans  seemed  about  to  fall 
into  confusion.  The  visits  of  tlie  disguised 
Miss  Fortescne  wens  a  puzzle;  and  as  both 
Dalton  and  Lady  Dudleigh  looked  ujton  this 
new  visitor  as  an  emisibary  of  Leon's,  they 
viewed  these  visits  as  they  did  those  of 
Leon.  For  the  first  time  Lady  Dudleigh 
and  Dalton  wen;  of  opposite  views.  Dalton 
dreaded  these  visits,  but  his  sister  favored 
them.  Her  mother's  heart  yi^arned  over 
Leon  ;  and  even  if  he  did  seek  Edith's  atfec- 
tions,  it  did  not  seem  an  undesirable  thing. 
That,  howev-r,  was  a  thing  from  which  Dal- 
ton recoiled  in  horror. 

At  that  time  Kegiuald's  strong  will  ,'md 
clear  intellect  were  sorely  needed,  liiit  he 
was  away  on  his  Contim^ntal  tour,  and  knew 
nothing  of  all  these  occurrences  till  it  was 
too  late. 

Thus  notliing  was  left  to  Dalton  but  idle 
warnings,  which  Edith  treated  as  we  have 
seen.  True,  there  was  one  other  resource, 
and  tliat  was  to  tell  her  all ;  bnt  this  he  hes- 
itated to  do.  For  years  he  bail  hoped  to  re- 
deem hiufself  He,  had  looked  forward  to 
the  day  wlien  his  name  should  be  treed  from 
stain,  and  he  still  looked  forward  to  that- 
day  when  he  might  be  able  to  say,  "Here, 
my  beloved  daughtei',  my  name  is  free  from 
stain;  voii  can  acknowledge  me  without 
shame."' 

Ibil  Edith's  opiiosition.  and  the  plans  of 
I, con,  and  the  absorption  of  Lady  DiHlleigh'n 
sympathies  in  the  interests  of  ber  son,  all 
destroyed  Dalton's  chances.  He  eoulil  only 
watch,  and  hear  from  bis  faithliil  Hugo  ac- 
counts of  what  was  going  on.  Thus  he  was 
led  into  worse  and  wm'se  acts,  ami  l)y  mis- 
understanding Edilll  at  the  ontsel.  opelU'<l 
the  way  for  Ifotli  himself  and  her  to  m.my 
sorrows. 

Alter  the  terrilile  events  eonnecled  with 
the  mysterious  departure  of  Leon  and  the 
arrest  of  Edilli.  Dalton  had  at  oni'e  wiitten 
to  l{eginahl.  lie  had  been  ill  in  the  interi- 
or of  .Sicily  -  for  his  testimony  at  the  tria! 
had  been  in  jtart  correct.  Dalton's  letter 
was  delayed  in  rcachiiiir  hini,  but  he  hur- 
ried back  !is  soon  as  ]K)ssible.  K'elying  on 
his  extraordimiry  resemblance  lo  Leon,  Dal- 
ton had  urged  him  to  jiersonify  the  missing 
nntn,  and  this  he  hatl  consented  to  do,  with 


:i  i 


160 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


tbe  HuccesH  which  has  hcon  described.  His 
chief  motive  in  doing  this  was  liis  ])rofound 
Hynipatliy  for  Dalton,  and  for  Editli  also, 
wliom  lie  he!i(!ved  to  have  been  sulijected 
to  unfair  treatment.  Tliat  sympathy  wliicli 
he  bad  ahvaily  felt  for  Edith  Avas  increased 
when  be  saw  her  face  to  face. 

All  this  was  not  told  to  hnuh  at  once,  but 
rather  in  the  conrse  of  s(!veral  conversations. 
Already  in  that  interview  in  the  ]>rison  her 
father  bad  explain(!d  to  her  bis  motives  in 
aetinji;  as  be  bad,  and  this  fnller  confession 
only  made  those  motives  more  apjiarent.  In 
Edith  this  story  served  only  to  excsito  fresh 
grief  and  remorse.  Ihit  Dalton  showed  so 
much  grief  himself  that  Edith  was  forccid 
to  restrain  such  feelings  as  these  in  iiin  jires- 
ence.  He  took  all  tbe  blame  to  himself. 
He  would  not  allow  her  to  reimiach  herself. 
He  it  was,  be  insisted,  who  bad  been  alone 
to  blame  in  subjecting  a  generous,  high- 
spirited  girl  to  sucli  terrible  treatment— to 
imprisonment  and  spying  and  coercion.  So 
great  W!is  bis  own  grit^f  that  Editli  found 
herself  forced  from  tbe  position  of  penitent 
into  that  of  comforter,  and  often  bad  to  lose 
sight  of  her  own  otVeiises  in  tbe  endeavor  to 
explain  away  her  own  suH'erings. 

And  thus,  where  there  was  so  mncb  need 
of  mutual  forgiviness  and  unitnal  consola- 
tion, each  one  became  less  a  ju'ey  to  n^niorse. 

Ill  tbe  joy  which  he  felt  at  thus  gaining 
at  last  all  bis  daughter's  love,  esi)eciany  aft- 
er tbe  terrildo  misunderstanding  that  had 
divided  her  from  him,  Dalton  bad  no  thought 
for  those  grav(i  dangers  which  surrounded 
both  lier  and  bini.  Hut  to  Edith  these  dan- 
gers still  ajuieared,  and  they  were  most  for- 
inidaide.  Slie  could  not  forget  that  she  was 
still  liable  to  arrest  on  the  most  a])palling 
of  accusations,  and  that  b<'r  father  also  was 
liable  to  discovery  and  re-arrest.  Reginald 
Iiad  tried  to  banish  her  fears  and  inspire 
her  with  bojie ;  but  now  that  he  was  no 
longer  near,  her  ])osition  was  revealed,  and 
the  full  i)ossiliility  of  her  ilanger  could  no 
longer  be  concealed. 

Danger  there  indeed  was,  danger  most 
formidable,  not  to  btr  uily,  but  to  all  of 
tbiMn.  Coward  Sir  Liond  might  be,  but  a 
coward  when  at  bay  is  di.Mgcrous,  since  be 
is  des))erate.  Sir  Lionel  also  was  iiowerful, 
since  he  was  armed  with  all  the  force  that 
may  be  given  by  wealth  and  |)osition,  and 
in  his  (les)iair  his  utmost  resources  would 
undoubtedly  be  ])ut  forib.  'riiost!  despaii- 
iiig  etl'orts  would  be  aimed  at  all  of  them  — 
all  were  alike  threatened:  herself  on  the 
old  charge,  her  father  as  an  eseajied  convict, 
and  Reginald  as  a  perjurer  and  a  eonsi)irator 
against  the  ends  of  justice.  As  to  Lady 
Dudl(!igb,  she  knew  not  what  to  think,  lint 
she  was  awar;'of  Reginald's  fears  about  her, 
and  she  shared  them  to  the  fullest  extent. 

In  the  miilst  of  all  this  Edith  receive<I  ii 
letter  from  Miss  riymj>ton.      She  was  Just 


recovering,  she  said,  from  a  severe  illness, 
consequent  on  anxiety  about  her.  She  had 
heard  tbe  terrible  tidings  of  her  arrest,  but 
of  late  had  been  cheered  by  the  news  of  her 
release.  Tbe  letter  was  most  loving,  and 
revealed  all  tbe  affection  of  her  "second 
mother."  Yet  so  true  was  Miss  Plymjitou 
to  the  promise  which  she  iiad  nnide  to  Mr. 
Dalton,  that  she  did  not  allude  to  the  great 
secret  which  had  once  been  disclosed  to  her. 
Edith  read  tbe  letter  with  varied  feelings, 
and  thought  with  an  aching  heart  of  her 
recepti(ui  of  that  other  letter.  This  letter, 
however,  met  with  a  difterent  fate.  She 
answertKl  it  at  once,  and  told  all  about  her 
father,  concluding  with  tbe  promise  to  go 
and  visit  her  as  soon  as  she  could. 

And  now  all  her  thoughts  and  hopes  were 
centred  ujiou  Reginald.  Where  was  he  ? 
Where  was  Lady  Dudleigb  ?  Had  h<!  found 
Leon  f  What  would  Sir  Licuiel  dof  Such 
were  tbe  thoughts  that  never  ceased  to  agi- 
tate her  mind. 

He  had  been  gone  a  whole  week.  She  had 
beard  nothing  from  him.  Accustomed  as 
sh(!  had  been  to  see  him  every  day  for  so 
long  a  time,  this  week  sei'ined  ]irolonge(l  to 
tbe  extent  of  a  month  ;  and  as  he  bad  prom- 
ised to  write  her  under  any  cir(!umstances, 
she  could  not  account  for  his  failure  to  keej) 
that  lU'oniise.  His  silence  alarmed  her.  As 
day  succeeded  to  day,  and  still  no  letter 
came,  she  became  a  i>rey  to  all  those  fearful 
fancies  which  may  be  raised  by  a  vivid  imag- 
iiii'tiou,  when  one  is  in  8Us])ense  about  the 
♦  ate  of  some  dearly  loved  friend. 

Her  father,  whose  watchful  love  made  him 
observant  of »! very  out;  of  her  varying  moods, 
could  not  avoid  noticing  tb(»  sadness  and 
agitation  of  her  face  and  manner,  and  was 
eager  to  know  the  cause.  This,  however, 
Edith's  modesty  would  not  allow  her  to  ex- 
plain, but  she  fianklv  cont't'ssed  that  she  was 
anxious.  Her  anxiety  she  attributed  to  her 
fears  aliout  their  situation,  and  her  dread 
lest  something  might  be  found  out  about  the 
imposture  of  Reginald,  or  aliout  hei'  father's 
real  character  and  personality.  The  fear 
was  not  an  idle  one,  ami  Dalton,  though  he 
tried  to  soothe  her,  was  himself  too  well 
aware  of  the  danger  that  suriounded  both 
of  them  to  be  very  succt>ssful  in  his  etl'orts. 

All  this  tinu^  a  steady  improvement  had 
been  taking  ])lace  in  Dallon's  luialtb.  and 
bis  recovery  fiom  bis  illness  was  rapid  and 
continuous.  It  was  Edith's  love  and  care 
and  sympathy  which  thus  gave  strength  to 
him.  and  tbe  joy  whieb  be  felt  in  her  pres- 
ence was  the  best  medicine  for  bis  alllictions. 


Thus 
ture  outside, 


dav  h(^  was  .at  last  able  to  vi'ii- 


It 


was  somethini'  more 


than 


a  week  since  Ifegiiiald  had  left.  Edith  was 
more  anxious  than  ever,  but  strove  to  con- 
ceal her  anxiety  and  to  drown  her  own  self- 
ish cares  iind(  r  more  assiduous  attentions 
to  that  father  whose  whole  being  now  seem- 


shf 
an| 
tv 
ar(| 
thJ 
hi( 
wlj 
wi 
it 

lovl 
spol 
yciiT 
l| 
the  I 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


161 


C(l  80  to  centre  npon  her.  For  tliis  purjjose 
she  hud  permiiuhxl  him  to  leave  the  Hall, 
and  come  forth  into  the  groundH ;  and  the 
two  were  now  walking  in  front  of  the  Hall, 
aronnd  the  pond,  Edith  supporting  her  fa- 
ther's feeble  footsteps,  and  trying  to  cheer 
him  by  pointing  out  some  improvements 
which  ought  to  be  nuide,  while  the  old  man, 
■with  his  mind  full  of  sweet  peace,  thought 
it  happiness  enough  for  him  to  lean  on  her 
loving  arm  and  hear  her  sweet  voice  as  she 
spoke  those  words  of  love  which  for  so  many 
years  he  had  longed  to  hear. 

In  the  midst  of  this  they  were  startled  by 
the  approach  of  several  men. 

Visitors  were  rare  at  Dalton  Hall.  Before 
the  recent  troubles  they  had  been  prohibit- 
e<l,  and  though  during  Dalton's  illness  the 
prohibition  had  been  taken  oft",  yet  there 
were  few  who  cared  to  pass  those  gates. 
Upon  this  occasion  the  approach  of  visitors 
gave  a  sudden  shock  to  Edith  and  her  father, 
and  when  they  saw  that  the  chief  one  among 
thasc  visitors  was  the  sherift",  that  shock  was 
intensified. 

Yes,  the  moment  had  come  which  they 
both  liad  dreaded.  All  was  known.  The 
danger  which  they  had  feared  was  at  hand, 
and  each  one  trembled  for  the  other.  Edith 
thought  that  it  was  her  father  who  was 
sought  after.  Dalton  shuddered  as  he 
thought  that  his  innocent  daughter  was 
once  more  in  the  grasp  of  the  law. 

The  sherift'  approaehtd,  followed  by  three 
others,  who  were  evidently  otlicers  of  the 
law.  Dalton  and  Edith  stooil  awaiting 
them,  and  Edith  felt  her  father's  hands 
clasp  her  arm  in  a  closer  and  more  tremu- 
lous embrace. 

The  sherift"  greeted  tliem  with  a  monrnfid 
face  and  evident  embarrassment.  His  er- 
rand was  a  painful  one,  and  it  was  rendered 
doubly  so  by  the  piteous  sight  before  him — 
the  feeble  old  nnin  thus  eliitging  to  that  sad- 
faeeil  young  girl,  tint  woe-worn  father  thus 
supported  by  the  daughter  whose  own  expe- 
rieiiee  of  lift!  had  been  so  bitter. 

'•  My  liusiness,"  said  the  sheritl",  "  is  a  nuist 
painful  one.  F(U'giv(^  me,  Mrs.  Dudleigh. 
Forgive  me,  Mr.  Dalton.  I  did  not  know 
till  now  how  painful  it  would  be."' 

He  had  greeted  them  in  silence,  removing 
liis  hat  resi)e<'.t fully,  and  bowing  licfore  this 
vencraliie  old  age  and  this  sad-faced  beauty, 
and  then  had  said  these  words  with  some 
al)i'U|ilness.  And  as  soon  as  he  named  that 
name  "  Dalton,"  they  both  understood  that 
he  knew  all. 

"You  have  come  for  me?"  said  Dalton. 
"Very  well." 

A  shudder  passed  through  Edith.  She 
lluiig  her  arms  about  her  father,  and  ])laecd 
herself  liefore  him,  as  if  to  interpose  be- 
tween hiu>  and  that  terribhs  fate  which  still 
pursued  its  iiuioeeut  vietini.  Slie  turned 
her  large  mournful  eyes  upon  the  shoritf 


with  a  look  of  silent  horror,  but  said  not  a 
word. 

"I  can  not  help  it,"  said  the  sheriff,  in 
still  deeper  embarrassment.  "  I  feel  for 
you,  for  both  of  you,  but  you  must  come 
with  me." 

"  Oh,  spare  him !"  cried  Edith.  "  He  is  ill. 
He  has  just  risen  from  his  bed.  Leave  him 
here.  He  is  not  lit  to  go.  Lot  me  nurse 
him." 

The  sheriff"  looked  at  her  in  increasing  em- 
barrofisment,  with  a  face  full  of  pity. 

"  I  am  deeply  grieved,"  ho  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  but  I  can  not  do  otherwise.  I  must 
do  my  duty.  You,  Mrs.  Dndleigh,  must  como 
also.     I  have  a  warrant  for  you  too." 

"  What !"  groaned  Dalton ;  "  for  her?" 

The  sherift"  said  nothing.  The  old  man's 
face  had  such  nn  expression  of  anguish  that 
words  were  useless. 

"  Again !"  nuirmurod  Dalton.  "  Again ! 
and  on  that  false  charge !  She  will  die !  she 
will  die!" 

"Oh,  i)apa!"  exclaimed  Edith.  "  Do  not 
think  of  mo.  I  can  bear  it.  There  is  no 
danger  for  me.  It  is  for  you  only  that  I  am 
anxious." 

"My  child!  my  darling  Edith!"  groaned 
the  unhappy  father,  <'this  is  my  work — this 
is  what  I  have  wrought  for  you." 

Edith  pressed  her  father  to  her  heart.  She 
raised  her  p.alo  face,  and,  looking  upward, 
sighed  out  in  her  agony  of  soul, 

"O  Ciod!  Is  there  any  justice  in  heaven, 
when  this  is  the  justice  of  earth!" 

Nothing  more  was  said.  No  one  had  any 
thing  to  say.  This  double  arrest  was  some- 
thing too  terrible  for  words,  and  the  darkest 
forebmlings  came  to  the  mind  of  each  one 
of  these  unhappy  victims  of  tin*  law.  And 
thus,  in  silence  and  in  f(!;ir,  they  were  led 
away — to  prison  and  to  judgment. 


CHAPTER  LHI. 
Tin;  ni{»)Tm:i{s. 

Ok  leaving  Dalton  Hall  Regimild  went  to 
the  place  mentionetl  by  Miss  Fortesciie.  It 
was  on  tiie  railway,  ami  w.-is  about  four  miles 
from  Dudleigh  Manor,  Here  ho  found  Miss 
Fortesc'Ue. 

•She  told  him  that  she  had  tried  to  find 
Leon  by  making  in(iuiries  every  where 
auKuig  his  old  haunts,  but  without  any  suc- 
cess whiltevei'.  At  last  she  coneluded  that, 
since  he  M-as  in  such  strict  hiding,  Dudh-igh 
Manor  itself  ivould  not  be  an  unlikely  ])lace 
in  which  to  find  him.  She  had  come  here, 
and,  after  disguising  herself  with  her  usual 
skill,  had  made  iui|uirii>s  of  the  ])orler  with 
■•IS  nnieh  adroitness  as  poHsil)Ie.  All  her  ef- 
forts, however,  were  «iuit(>  ill  vain.  The  por- 
ter could  not  be  caught  committing  himself 
in  any  way,  but  profes.sed  to  have  seen  noth- 


162 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


ing  of  the  missing  man  for  months.  She 
would  lieivo  come  away  from  this  oxporiment 
in  despair  had  it  not  been  for  one  circum- 
stance, whicli,  though  small  in  itself,  seemed 
to  her  to  have  very  deep  meaning.  It  was 
this.  While  she  was  talking  with  the  porter 
a  dog  came  up,  wliich  at  once  began  to  fawn 
on  her.  This  amazed  the  porter,  who  did 
not  like  the  appearance  of  things,  and  tried 
to  drive  the  dog  away.  But  Miss  Fortescue 
had  in  an  instant  recognized  the  dog  of 
Leon,  well  known  to  herself,  and  ouce  a 
great  pet. 

This  casual  appearance  of  the  dog  seemed 
to  her  the  strongest  possible  proof  that  Leon 
was  now  in  that  very  place.  Hp  nnist  have 
been  left  purposely  in  Dalton  Park  for  a  few 
days,  probably  having  been  stationed  at  that 
very  spot  which  he  kept  so  persistently.  If 
so,  the  same  one  who  left  him  there  must 
have  brought  him  here.  It  was  iuconceivii- 
blo  that  the  dog  couhl  have  found  his, way 
here  alone  from  Dalton  Park.  In  addition  to 
this,  the  porter's  uneasiness  at  the  dog's  rec- 
ognition of  her  was  of  itself  full  of  meaning. 

This  w.as  all  that  she  had  been  able  to  fuid 
out, but  this  was  enough.  Fearful  that  Leon 
might  8U8j)ect  who  she  was,  she  had  written 
to  Reginald  at  once ;  and  now  that  he  had 
come,  she  urged  liim  to  go  to  Dndleigh  Man- 
or himself  and  flud  out  the  truth. 

There  was  no  need  to  urge  Reginald.  His 
anxiety  about  his  mother  was  eiu)ugh  to 
niiike  him  anxious  to  lose  no  tinu>,  but  the 
prospect  of  finding  Leon  made  him  now 
doubly  anxious.  It  was  already  evening, 
however,  an«l  ho  would  have  to  defer  his 
visit  until  the  following  day. 

At  about  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning 
Reginald  Dndleigh  stood  at  his  father's  gate 
— the  gate  of  that  home  from  which  he  had 
been  so  limg  an  exile.  The  porter  came  out 
to  open  it,  and  stared  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  was  out,  Sir,"  he  said. 

Evidently  the  porter  had  mistaken  him 
for  Leon.  This  address  assured  him  of  the 
fact  of  Leon's  presence.  The  jMirtcr  was  a 
lU'w  hand,  and  Reginald  did  not  tliink  it 
worth  while  to  explain.  He  entered  silent- 
ly while  the  porter  held  the  gate  open,  and 
tiien  walked  up  the  long  avenue  toward  the 
manor-house. 

The  door  was  open.  He  walked  in.  Some 
servants  were  moving  about,  who  se('ine<l  to 
think  his  jiresence  a  matter  of  course.  Tliese 
also  evidently  mistook  him  for  Leon;  and 
thtise  things,  sliglit  as  they  were,  assured 
him  that  his  lirother  must  be  here.  Yet  in 
spite  of  tlie  great  purpose  for  which  he  had 
come — ai)urpose,  as  he  felt,  of  life  anddeatli, 
and  even  more — in  spile  of  this,  he  eonld 
not  help  ])ansing  f(U'  a  moment  as  hi^  I'onnd 
hiniKclf  within  these  Ciiniiliar  i>n'eiiicts,  in 
the  home  of  his  eliildliood,  witliin  sight  of 
objects  so  well  remenibi^'ed,  so  long  lost  to 
view. 


But  it  was  only  for  a  few  moments.  The 
first  rush  of  feeling  j)as8ed,  and  then  there 
came  back  the  recollection  of  all  that  lay 
before  him,  of  all  that  depended  u|)ou  this 
visit.  He  walked  on.  He  reached  the  great 
stairway.  He  ascended  it.  Ke  came  to  the 
great  hall  up  stairs.  On  one  side  was  the 
drawing-room,  on  the  other  the  library.  The 
former  was  empty,  but  in  the  latter  there 
was  a  solitary  occupant.  He  was  seated  at 
a  table,  writing.  So  intent  was  this  man 
on  his  occupaticm  that  ho  did  not  hear  the 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  or  at  least 
did  not  regard  them ;  for  even  as  Rtsginald 
stood  looking  at  him,  ho  went  on  with  his 
writing.  His  back  was  turned  toward  the 
door,  80  that  Reginald  could  not  see  his  fact^, 
but  the  outline  of  the  figure  was  sutlicient. 
Reginald  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  him. 
Then  ho  advanced  toward  tho  writer,  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

Tho  writer  gave  a  sudden  start,  leaped 
from  his  chair,  and  turned  round.  There 
was  fear  on  his  face — the  fear  of  one  who  is 
on  the  look-out  for  sudden  danger — a  fear 
without  a  particle  of  recognition.  But  grad- 
ually the  blankness  of  his  terrified  face  de- 
parted, and  there  came  a  new  expression — 
an  expression  in  which  there  was  enual  ter- 
ror, yet  at  the  same  time  a  full  lecognitiou 
of  tho  danger  before  him. 

It  was  L(!on  Diulleigh. 

Reginald  said  not  one  word,  but  looked 
at  him  with  a  stern,  relentless  face. 

As  these  two  thus  stood  looking  at  one 
another,  each  saw  in  tho  other's  face  the 
marvelous  resemblance  to  himself,  whi<'Ii 
had  been  already  .so  striking  to  others,  and 
so  bewildering.  But  tho  exju-ession  was  to- 
tally dilfert^nt.  Aside  from  the  general  air 
characteristic  of  each,  there  was  the  look 
that  had  been  called  up  by  tho  present 
nuM'ting.  Reginald  confronted  his  brother 
with  a  stern,  meiuicing  gaze,  and  a  look  of 
authority  th.it  Avas  more  than  tho  ordinary 
look  which  might  belong  to  an  elder  brother. 
Leon's  face  still  kejjt  its  look  of  fear,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  this  fear 
an  impulse  to  fly,  which  he  was  unable  to 
obey.  Reginald  looked  like  the  master, 
Leon  like  the  culprit  and  the  slave. 

Leon  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Yon — ">ere!"  he  faltered. 

"  When  lid  1  be  V  said  Reginald, 

in  Ji  stern  ' 

"  What  do  you  want!"  asked  Leon,  rally- 
ing tVoin  his  fear,  and  apparently  encour- 
aged Ity  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

"What  do  I  want?"  repeated  Reginald. 
"Many  things.  First,  I  want  you;  second- 
ly, my  mother." 

"  You  won't  get  any  thing  out  of  me,"  said 
Leon,  fiercely. 

"  In  tli<^  first  )ihice.  the  sight  of  you  is  one 
of  the  chief  things,"  said  Reginald,  with  a 
sneer.     "  After  having  heard  yiuir  sad  fate, 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


163 


it  is  something  to  sec  you  here  ia  the 
llesh." 

"It's  that  infernal  porter!"  cried  Leon, 
half  to  himself. 

"What  do  you  meanf  Do  you  hlamo 
hin>  for  letting  me  in — me — Reginald  Dud- 
leigh — your  elder  brother  V 

"  You're  disinherited,"  growh'd  Loon. 

"Pooh!"  said  Reginald.  "How  can  the 
eldest  sou  be  disinherited  ?  But  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  waste  time.  I  have  come  to  call  you 
to  account  for  what  you  have  done,  and  I 
have  tliat  to  say  to  you  wliich  you  must 
hear,  and,  what  is  more,  you  must  obey." 

If  Leon's  face  coukl  liave  grown  whiter 
than  it  already  >va8,  it  would  have  become 
so  at  these  words.  His  fear  seemed  swal- 
h)wed  up  in  a  wild  overmastering  rush  of 
fnry  and  indignation.  He  started  back  and 
seized  the  bell-rope. 

"  I  don't  know  yon !"  he  almost  yelled. 
"  Who  are  you  ?"  Saying  this  he  pulled  the 
bell-rope  again  and  again.  "  Who  are  you  ?" 
he  repeated  over  and  over  again,  pulling  the 
bell-rope  as  he  spoke.  "  I'll  have  you  turn- 
ed out.  You're  an  infernal  impostor!  Who 
are  you  ?  I  can  prove  that  Reginald  Dnd- 
leigh  ia  dead.  I'll  have  you  turned  out.  I'll 
have  you  turned  out." 

While  he  was  speaking,  his  frantic  ,ind  re- 
peated tugs  at  the  bell  had  roused  the  house. 
Oiitsiile  the  rush  of  footsteps  was  heard,  and 
soon  a  crowd  of  servants  poured  iuto  the 
room. 

"  You  scoundi'cls !"  roared  Loon.  "  W^hat 
do  you  mean  by  letting  strangers  in  here  in 
this  way?  Put  this  fellow  out!  Put  him 
out!  Curse  yon!  why  don't  you  collar  him 
and  put  him  out  V 

As  the  servants  entered,  Reginald  turned 
half  round  and  faced  tluMU.  Lt'on  shouted 
out  these  words,  and  shook  his  list  toward 
Ins  l)rotlier,  while  the  servants  stared  in 
amazement  at  the  astonishing  spectacle. 
The  two  brothers  stooil  there  befon^  them, 
the  one  calm  and  welf-pos.sessed,  the  other 
infuriated  with  excitement;  but  the  won- 
derful resemblance  between  them  held  the 
servants  spell-bound. 

As  soon  as  he  could  make  himself  heard, 
Reginald  spoke. 

"  Yon  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Most 
of  you  are  new  faces,  l»nt  some  of  you  n\- 
member  me.  Holiler,"  said  he,  as  his  eyes, 
wandt-ring  over  the  faces  before  him,  rested 
upon  oiu',  "  don't  you  know  your  young  mas- 
ter? Have  you  forgotten  Regiiuild  Dud- 
leighf" 

As  ho  said  this  an  old  man  came  forth 
from  the  rear  and  looked  at  him,  with  his 
liauds  claspetl  together  and  his  eyes  full  of 
tears. 

"Lord  be  merciful  to  us  all,"  he  cried, 
with  a  trembling  voice,  "  if  it  Iteant  Master 
Reginald  hisself  come  back  t(»  life  again, 
and  nie  moiunin'  over  liini  as  dead!     Oh, 


Master  Reginald,  but  it's  glad  I  am  this  day. 
And  where  have  ye  been  T" 

"Never  mind,  old  man,"  said  Reginald, 
kindly ;  "  you'll  know  so(m  enough."  Say- 
ing this,  he  shook  the  old  man's  hand,  and 
then  turned  with  lowering  brow  once  more 
upon  Leon. 

"Leon,"  said  he,  "none  of  this  foolery. 
You  found  out  what  I  am  when  you  were  a 
boy.  None  of  this  hysterical  excitement. 
/  am  master  here." 

But  Leon  made  no  reply.  With  his  face 
now  on  fire  with  rage,  he  retreated  a  few 
steps  and  looked  under  the  table.  He  called 
(luickly  to  something  that  was  there,  and  as 
he  called,  a  huge  dog  came  forth  and  stood 
by  his  side.  Tliis  dog  he  led  forward,  and 
pointed  at  Reginald. 

The  servants  looked  on  with  pale  faces  at 
this  scene,  overcome  with  horror  as  they  saw 
Leon's  purpose. 

"Go,"  said  Leon,  fiercely,  to  Reginald, 
"  or  you'll  be  sorry." 

Reginald  said  nothing,  but  put  his  hand 
into  his  Ineast  pocket  and  drew  forth  a  re- 
\'olver.  It  was  not  a  very  common  weapon 
in  England  in  those  days,  but  Reginald  had 
picked  one  up  in  his  waiulerings,  and  had 
brought  it  with  Iiim  on  the  present  occasion, 
Leon,  however,  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 
He  was  intent  on  one  purpose,  and  that  was 
to  drive  Reginald  away. 

Ho  therefore  put  his  hand  on  the  dog's 
liead,  and,  pointing  toward  his  brother, 
shouted,  "  At  him.  Sir !"  The  dog  hesitatotl 
for  a  moment.  His  master  called  again. 
The  huge  ]>ruto  gathered  himself  up.  One 
more  cry  from  the  now  frenzied  Leon,  and 
the  dog  gave  a  tremendous  leap  forward  full 
at  Reginald's  throat. 

A  cry  of  horror  burst  from  the  servants. 
They  were  by  no  means  overseusitive,  but 
this  Hcene  was  too  terrible. 

Tlui  dog  sprang. 

But  at  that  instant  the  loud  report  of 
Reginald's  rev«dver  rang  through  the  house, 
and  the  fierce  l)east,  with  a  sharj)  howl,  fell 
back,  and  lay  on  the  Hoor  writhing  in  his 
death  agony.  The  wound  was  a  mortal 
one. 

Reginald  replaced  his  pisttd  in  his  pocket. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  b(!ast,"  said  ho,  as 
he  looked  at  the  dog  lor  a  moment,  "but  I 
could  not  help  it.  And  you,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  the  servants,  "go  down  stairs. 
When  I  want  you  I  will  call  for  you.  Hol- 
der will  tell  you  who  I  am." 

At  this  the  servants  all  retreated,  over- 
awed by  the  look  and  manner  of  this  new 
master. 

The  shot  of  the  pistol  seemed  to  have 
overwhelmed  Leon.  He  shrank  back,  and 
stared  by  turns  at  Reginald  and  the  dog, 
with  a  white  face  and  a  scowling  brow. 

After  the  servants  had  gone,  Reginald 
walkeil  up  to  him. 


164 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


THE   FIKRCE   UEA8T,  WITH  A   SHARP   HOWL,  FELL   HACK. 


"I  will  have  no  moro  words,"  said  he, 
fiercely.  "I'm  your  niastor  now,  Leon,  as  I 
always  have  been.  Yon  are  in  my  power 
now.  You  nnist  either  do  a«  I  hid  you,  or 
else  go  to  Jail.  I  have  t.iken  np  all  your 
notes ',  I  have  paid  more  than  forty  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  I  now  hold  those  notes 
of  yours.  I  do  not  intend  to  let  you  go  till 
you  do  what  I  wish.  If  you  don't,  I  will 
take  you  from  this  place  and  put  you  in 
jail.  I  have  warrants  all  re.'idy,  and  in  tin* 
jjroper  hands.  The  ofticers  are  waiting  in 
the  neighborhood.  IJesides  these  claims,  I 
shall  have  charges  against  you  of  a  griivcr 
kind ;  you  know  what,  so  that  you  can  not 
escape.  Now  listen.  I  am  your  only  cred- 
itor now,  and  your  only  accusei".  You  need 
not  hide  any  longer,  or  Hy  frinn  the  country. 
Confess;  come  to  terms  witii  me,  and  you 
shall  be  a  free  man ;  refuse,  and  you  shall 
Huft'»<r  the  very  worst  that  the  law  inllicts. 
If  you  do  not  come  to  terms  with  me,  you 
are  lost.  I  give  you  only  this  chanc(<.  You 
can  do  nothing.  You  can  not  harm  Miss 
Daltou  now,  for  I  have  found  you  out,  and 
your  miserable  trick  is  of  no  use  any  ]ong(>r. 
Come,  now  ;  decide  ut  ouoo.    I  will  give  you 


just  ten  minutes.  If  you  come  to  terms,  you 
art'  safe  ;  if  not,  you  go  to  jail." 

"  Who'll  take  me  ?"  said  Leon,  in  a  surly 
voice. 

"  /,"  said  Reginald — "  I,  with  my  own 
hands.  /  will  take  you  out  of  this  place, 
and  hand  you  over  to  th(!  officers  who  are 
waiting  not  very  far  awiiy." 

Saying  this,  Reginald  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  then  rei)lacing  it,  turned  once  moro  to 
Leon. 

"  Your  tricks  haA^e  failed.  I  will  produce 
you  as  you  are,  and  Miss  Dalton  will  be  safe. 
Y(m'll  hiivo  to  exi)lain  it  all  in  court,  so  you 
may  as  well  exitlain  it  to  me.  I  don't  want 
to  be  hard  with  you.  I  know  you  of  old, 
and  have  forgiven  other  villainies  of  yours. 
You  can't  take  vengeai.  je  on  any  one.  Even 
your  silence  will  be  of  no  us(s  You  nnist 
choose  between  a  <;onf('ssion  to  me  now,  or  a 
general  confession  in  court.  Resides,  even 
if  you  could  have  vengeance,  it  wouldn't  be 
worth  so  nnicli  to  a  man  like  yon  as  what  I 
offer  ycni.  '  offer  yon  freed(mi.  I  will  give 
you  back  al.  your  notes  and  bonds.  You 
will  be  no  longer  in  any  diinger.  More,  I 
will  help  you.     I  don't  want  to  use  harsh 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


165 


measures  if  I  can  help  it.  Don't  be  a  fool. 
Do  as  I  say,  and  accept  my  otter.  If  you 
don't,  I  swear,  after  what  you've  done  I'll 
sliow  you  no  more  mercy  than  I  showed  your 
dog." 

Leon  Avas  silent.  His  face  grow  more 
tranquil.  He  was  evidently  afl'ected  by  his 
brother's  words.  He  stood,  in  thought,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  Debt  was  a  great 
evil.  Danger  was  around  him.  Freedom 
was  a  great  blessing.  Thus  far  he  had  been 
safe  only  because  he  had  been  in  hiding. 
Besides,  he  was  powerless  now,  and  his 
knowledge  of  Reginald,  as  he  had  been  in 
early  life,  and  as  ho  saw  him  now,  showed 
him  that  his  brother  always  meant  what  he 
said. 

"  I  don't  believe  you  have  those  notes  and 
bonds." 

"  How  CO,  lid  I  know  unless  I  paid  them  T 
I  will  tell  you  the  names  concerned  in  most 
of  them,  and  the  amounts." 

And  Reginald  thereupon  enumerated  sev- 
eral creditors,  with  the  amounts  due  to  each. 
By  this  Leon  was  evidently  convinced. 

"  And  you've  paid  them  ?"  said  he. 

"Yes." 

"  And  you'll  give  them  to  me  ?" 

"I  will.  I  am  your  only  creditor  now. 
I  have  found  out  and  paid  every  debt  of 
yours.  I  did  this  to  force  you  to  come  to 
t«'rms.  That  is  all  I  want.  You  see  that 
this  is  for  your  interest.  More,  I  will  give 
you  enough  to  begin  life  on.  Do  you  atik 
more  than  this  V 

Leon  hesitated  for  a  short  time  longer. 

"Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "what  is  it  that 
you  want  nie  to  do  ?" 

"  First  of  all  I  want  you  to  tell  me"  about 
that  infernal  trick  of  yours  with — the  body. 
Whose  is  it  f  Jliiid  you,  it's  of  no  conse- 
(iueiu!e  now,  so  long  as  yoti  an;  alive,  and 
can  be  produced  ;  but  I  wish  to  know." 

With  some  hesitation  Leon  informed  his 
brotlier.  The  information  which  he  gave 
coulinned  tlu^  suspicions  of  Miss  Fortescue. 
He  liad  determined  to  be  avenged  on  Kdith 
and  her  father,  and  after  that  night  on 
■which  Kdith  had  t'scaped  lut  had  managed 
to  jirocure  a  body  in  liOndon  from  some  of 
the  b()(ly-suatch(!rs  who  ,suppll(!d  t\w  med- 
ical schools  there.  Ho  lia<t  nMuoved  the 
head,  aiul  d-esscd  it  in  the  clotlies  which  .le 
ha<l  liist  w  rn.  Ho  had  taken  it  to  Dulto.t 
Park  and  put  it  in  the  well  about  a  week 
after  Ktlith'H  tliglit.  He  had  never  gone 
back  to  his  room,  but  had  iiurposely  left  it 
nn  it  was,  so  as  to  make  Iiis  diNiippearauce 
the  more  suspicions.  He  himself  luid  con- 
trived to  raise  those  frecpient  rumors  which 
had  ariHcn  and  grown  to  su<h  an  extent  that 
they  liiid  terniitiated  in  tlu;  senrcli  at  Daltou 
Park.  AnonymouH  letters  to  various  per- 
sons had  suggested  to  tliem  the  sup|iosed 
gnl't  of  Kilitli,  and  the  ]>r<>biil>ility  of  the  re- 
mains being  found  in  tiie  weL 


The  horror  which  Reginald  felt  at  this 
disclosure  w.as  largely  mitigated  by  the  fact 
that  ho  had  already  inuiginod  some  such 
proceeding  as  this,  for  he  luid  felt  sure  that 
it  was  a  trick,  and  thereftu-o  it  had  only 
been  left  to  account  for  the  trick. 

The  next  thing  which  Reginald  had  to 
investigate  was  the  nu>ck  marriage.  But 
here  he  did  not  choose  to  cinestion  Leon  di- 
rectly about  Edith.  He  rather  chose  to  in- 
vestigate that  earlier  marriage  with  Miss 
Fortescue. 

By  this  time  Leon's  objections  to  confess 
had  vanished.  The  inducements  which  Reg- 
inald held  out  were  of  themselves  attractive 
enough  to  one  in  his  desperate  position,  and, 
what  was  more,  ho  felt  that  there  was  no  al- 
ternative. Having  once  begun,  he  seemed 
to  grow  accustomed  to  it,  aud  spoke  with 
greater  freedom. 

To  Reginald's  immense  surprise  and  relief, 
Leon  informed  him  that  the  marriage  with 
Miss  Fortescue  was  not  a  mock  marriage  at 
all.  For  once  in  his  life  he  had  been  lumest. 
The  nnirriage  had  been  a  real  one.  It  was 
only  after  the  aft'air  in  the  Daltou  vaults 
that  he  had  pretended  that  it  was  false.  He 
did  so  in  order  to  free  himself  from  his  real 
wife,  and  g.ain  some  control  over  the  D.alton 
estate.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Porter  was  a  bona  fide 
clergyman,  aud  the  marriage  had  been  con- 
ducted in  a  l<!gal  manner.  He  had  found 
out  that  the  Kev.  Mr.  Porter  had  gone  to 
Scotland,  and  saw  that  he  could  easily  de- 
ceive his  wife. 

"  But,"  said  Reginald,  "  what  is  the  reason 
that  your  wife  could  never  find  him  out  ? 
She  looked  over  all  the  lists  of  clergynxsn, 
aud  wrote  to  all  of  the  name  of  Porter.  She 
could  not  find  him." 

"Naturally  enough,"  said  Lcoti,  indiffer- 
ently. "She  supposed  that  he  belonged  to 
the  Church,  because  he  used  the  Church 
service  ;  but  he  was  a  Presbyterian." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?" 

"  When  last  I  heard  about  him  ho  was  at 
Falkirk." 

"  Then  Miss  Fortescue  was  regularly  mar- 
ried, iiiul  is  now  yoi;r  wifef 

"Sh(!  is  my  wife,"  said  Leon. 

At  this  Reginald  was  silent  for  some  time. 
The  joy  that  lilled  his  heart  at  this  discovery 
was  so  great  that  for  a  time  it  drove  aw.iy 
those  other  thoughts,  deep  aud  dread,  that 
had  taken  possession  of  him.  But  these 
thoughts  soon  returned. 

"One  thing  more,"  said  he,  in  an  anxious 
voice.     "  Leon,  where  is  my  mother  ?" 


I' 

J 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

THE  SONS  AND  TIIKIll  FATHER. 

"  WnF.UE  is  my  mother?" 
Such  was  Reginald's  last  question.     He 
asked  it  aa  though  Lady  Dudleigh  was  only 


166 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


his  mother,  and  not  the  mother  of  Leon  also. 
Hut  the  circumstances  of  his  past  life  had 
made  his  father  and  his  hrother  seem  like 
Btruugoi's,  and  his  mother  seemed  all  his 
own. 

At  this  question  Leon  stared  at  him  with 
n  look  of  surprise  that  was  evidently  un- 
feigned. 

"  Your  mother  V  ho  rejteated. 

"  I  do  not  say  our  motlier,"  said  Reginald. 
"  I  say  my  mother.     Where  is  she  ?" 

"  I  swear  I  kuow  notliing  about  her,"  said 
Leon,  earnestly.    "  1  have  never  seen  her." 

"  You  have  never  seen  her?"  repeatetl  Reg- 
inald, in  a  tremulous  voice. 

"  Never,"  said  Leon ;  "  that  is,  not  since 
she  left  tliis  place  ton  years  ago." 

"  You  saw  her  at  Dalton  Hall !"  cried  Reg- 
inald. 

"  At  Dalton  Hidl  ?     I  did  not,"  said  Leon. 

"Mrs.  Dunbar,  she  called  herself.  You 
saw  her  often." 

"Mrs.  Dunbar!  Good  Heavens!"  cried 
Leon,  in  unaflectod  surprise.  "How  was  I 
to  know  that  f ' 

Reginald  loo  I  at  bim  gloomily  and  men- 
acingly. 

"  Leon,"  said  he,  in  a  stem  voice,  "  if  you 
dare  to  deceive  me  about  this,  I  will  show  no 
mofcy.     You  must  tell  all — yes,  all .'" 

"  But  I  tell  you  I  don't  know  any  thing 
about  her,"  said  Leon ;  "  I  swear  I  don't. 
I'll  tell  every  thing  that  I  kuow.  No  such 
X)er8on  has  over  been  here." 

Reginald  looked  at  his  brother  with  a 
gloomy  frown ;  but  Leon's  tone  seemed  sin- 
cere, and  the  thought  canio  to  him  that  his 
brother  could  have  no  reason  for  conceal- 
ment. If  Leon  did  not  know,  ho  would  have 
to  seek  what  he  wished  from  another — his 
father.  His  father  and  his  mother  had  gone 
off  together ;  that  father  alone  could  tell. 

"  Where  is  Sir  Lionel  ?"  asked  Reginald, 
as  these  thoughts  came  to  him.  He  called 
him  "  Sir  Lionel."  Ho  could  not  call  him 
"  father." 

Leon  looked  iit  him  with  a  strange  ex- 
pression. 

"  Ho  is  here,"  said  ho. 

"  Where  shall  I  find  him  ?  I  want  to  see 
him  at  once.     Is  he  in  his  room?" 

Leon  hesitated. 

"  Quick !"  said  Reginald,  impatiently. 
"  Why  don't  you  answer  V 

"  You  won't  get  much  satisfaction  out  of 
him,"  said  Leon,  in  a  peculiar  voice. 

"I'll  iind  out  what  he  knows.  I'll  tear 
the  secret  out  of  him,"  cried  Reginald,  fierce- 
ly. "  Where  is  ho  ?  Come  with  me.  Take 
mo  to  him." 

"  You'll  find  it  rather  hard  to  get  any  thing 
out  of  hitn,"  said  Leon,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"He's  beyond  even  your  reach,  and  your 
courts  of  law  too." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  cried  Reginald. 

"Well,  you  may  see  for  yourself,"  said 


Leon.  "  You  won't  be  satisfied,  I  suppose, 
unless  you  do.  Come  along.  You  needn't  l)e 
alaruKHl.  I  won't  run.  I'll  stick  to  my  part 
of  our  agreement,  if  you  stick  to  yours." 

With  these  words  licon  led  the  wiiy  out  of 
the  library,  and  Reginald  followed.  Tiiey 
went  up  a  fiight  of  stairs  and  along  a  hall 
to  the  extrenui  end.  Here  Leon  stojjpcd  at. 
a  door,  and  proceeded  to  take  a  key  from  his 
pocket.  This  .action  surpristid  R(!ginald.  Ho 
rcimembered  the  room  well.  In  liis  day  it 
had  not  been  used  at  all,  except  on  rare  oc- 
casions, and  had  been  thus  neglected  on  ac- 
count of  its  gloom  and  dampness. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  he  asked, 
gloomily,  looking  suspiciously  at  the  key. 

"  Oh,  you'll  see  soon  enougli,"  said  Leon. 

With  these  words  ho  inserted  the  key  in 
the  lock  as  noiselessly  as  possible,  and  then 
gently  turned  the  bolt.  Having  done  this, 
he  opened  the  door  a  little,  and  looked  in 
with  a  cautious  movement.  These  i)roceed- 
inj;s  puzzled  Reginald  still  mon^,  and  ho 
tried  in  vain  to  conjecture  what  their  object 
might  be. 

One  cautious  look  satisfied  Leon.  He 
opened  the  door  wider,  and  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  to  his  brother, 

"  Come  along ;  he's  quiet  just  now." 

With  these  words  he  entered,  and  held  the 
door  for  Reginald  to  pass  through.  With- 
out a  moment's  hesitation  Reginald  went 
into  the  room.  He  took  but  one  step,  and 
then  stopped,  rooted  to  the  floor  by  the  sight 
that  met  his  eyes. 

The  room  was  low,  and  had  no  furniture 
but  an  iron  bed.  There  were  two  small, 
deep  windows,  over  which  the  ivy  had 
grown  so  closely  that  it  diuuned  the  light, 
and  throw  an  air  of  gloom  over  the  scene. 

Upon  the  iron  bed  was  seated  a  strange 
figure,  the  sight  of  which  sent  a  thrill  of 
horror  through  Reginald's  frame.  It  was  a 
thin,  emaciated  figure,  worn  and  bent.  His 
hair  was  as  white  as  snow ;  his  beai-d  and 
mustache  were  short  and  stubbly,  as  though 
they  were  the  growth  of  but  a  few  weeks  ; 
while  his  whiskers  were  bushy  and  matted 
tog«ither. 

Over  this  figure  a  quilt  was  thrown  in  a 
fantastic  manner,  under  which  api)eared  a 
long  night-gown,  from  which  thin  bare  legs 
])rotruded,  with  bare,  gaunt,  skeleton-like 
feet. 

As  he  eat  there  his  eyes  wandered  about 
on  vacancy;  a  silly  smile  was  on  his  white, 
worn  face;  ho  kept  nuittering  to  himself 
continually  some  incoherent  and  almost  in- 
audible sentences;  and  at  the  same  time  his 
long  bony  lingers  kept  clawing  and  picking 
at  the  quilt  which  covered  him. 

At    first  Rfginald   could   scarce    believe 

what  ho  saw  ;  l)Ut  there  was  the  fact  before 

his  eyes,  and  the  terrible  truth  could  imt  be 

denied  that  in  this  wretched  cn^ature   be- 

,  fore  him  was  the  wreck  of  that  one  who  but 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


167 


'Ul'ON   THE   IRON   BUD   WAS    SEATICI) 


STKANOli    FlOUUli. 


a  short  time  before  li.arl  smMiied  to  bini  to 
lie  a  powerful  .iiid  uiiHcriipulous  villain,  full 
of  the  most  formidable  plans  for  inflieting 
fresh  wrongs  upon  those  whom  lio  had  al- 
ready so  foully  injured.  Reginald  had  seen 
him  for  a  few  moments  at  the  trial,  and  had 
noticed  that  the  ten  eventful  years  for  whieh 
they  had  been  parted  had  made  but  little 
dirtcrenco  in  his  appearance.  The  casual 
glimpses  of  him  which  he  afterward  had 
caught  showed  some  change,  but  nothing 
very  striking  ;  but  now  the  change  was  ter- 
rible, the  transformation  was  hideous;  the 
strong  man  had  btjcome  a  shattered  wreck ; 
the  once  vigorous  miud  had  sunk  into  a  state 
of  helpless  imbecility  and  driveling  idiocy. 

Leou  shut  the  door,  and  turning  the  key, 
stood  looking  on.  Tiie  slight  noise  which 
he  made  attracted  the  wandering  gaze  of 
the  madman.  He  started  slightly,  and  stood 
uj),  wraiijiing  the  quilt  carefully  arouiul  him. 
Then,  with  a  silly  smile,  he  advanced  a  few 
l)aces. 

"  Well,  Dr.  Morton,"  he  said,  in  a  weak, 
quavering  voice,  "  you  have  received  my  let- 
ter, I  hope.  Hero  is  this  person  that  I  wrote 
about.  Her  name  is  Mrs.  Dunbar.  She  is  an 
old  depoiulent.  She  is  mad — ha,  ha! — mad. 
Yes,  mad,  doctor.  She  thinks  she  is  my 
wife.  She  calls  herself  Lady  Dudlt>igh. 
Hut,  doctor,  her  real  name  is  Mrs.  Dunbar. 
She  is  mad,  doctor — mad — mad — mad.  Ha, 
ha,  ha!" 

At  these  words  u  terriblt!  suspicion  came 


to  Reginald's  mind.  Tiie  madman  had  stiil 
prominent  in  his  thoughts  the  idea  which 
he  had  lately  been  carrying  out.  Could 
there  bo  any  truth  in  these  words,  or  were 
they  mere  fancies  ?  He  said  not  a  word,  but 
looked  and  listened  in  anxious  silence.  He 
had  felt  a  moment's  pity  for  this  man,  who, 
wretch  though  he  luid  been,  was  still  his  fa- 
ther ;  but  now  his  mothei-'s  image  rose  be- 
fore him  —  his  mother,  pale,  suflering,  and 
perhajts  desi)airing — and  in  his  eager  desire 
to  learn  her  fate,  all  softer  feelings  for  his 
father  died  out. 

"  You  nmst  keep  her.  Dr.  Morton,"  said 
Sir  Lionel,  in  the  same  toiie.  "  You  know 
whiit  she  wants.  I  will  pay  you  well.  Mon- 
ey is  no  object.  You  must  keeji  her  close — 
close — yes,  close  as  the  grave.  She  is  in- 
curable, doctor.  She  nnist  never  come  out 
of  this  j)lace  with  her  mad  fancies.  For  she 
I  is  mad — mad — mad — mad^mad.  Oh  yes. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Sir  Lioncd  then  smiled  as  before,  and 
chuckled  to  himself,  while  a  leer  of  cunning 
triumidi  flashed  for  a  moment  from  his  wan- 
dering eyes.  "Trapped!"  lit;  ejaculated, 
softly.  "Trapped!  The  keeper!  The  keep- 
er trapped !  She  thought  she  was  my  keep- 
er! And  so  she  was.  Ihit  she  was  trapped 
— yes,  trai>i)ed.  Tlie  keeper  trapped !  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  She  thought  it  was  an  inn,"  ho 
continued,  after  a  brief  silence,  in  which  he 
chuckled  to  himsidf  over  the  remembrance 
of  his  scheme ;  "  and  so  she  was  trapped. 


i 


168 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Tbo  keeper  was  caught  herself,  and  found 
herself  in  a  mad-hoiwel  And  she'll  never 
get  out — never !  She's  mad.  They'll  all  be- 
lieve it.  Mad!  Yes,  mud — and  in  a  mad- 
house! Ha,  ha,  ha!  There's  Lady  Dnd- 
leigh  fur  you !  But  she's  Mrs.  Dunbar  now. 
Ha,  ha,  ha!" 

Kegiuald's  eagerness  to  learn  more  ^vas 
uncontrollable.  In  his  impatience  to  find 
out,  he  could  no  longer  wait  for  his  father's 
stray  confessions. 

"  What  mad-honsc t  Where?"  ho  asked, 
eagerly  and  abruptly. 

Sir  Lionel  did  not  look  at  him.  But  the 
question  came  to  him  none  the  less.  It 
eanie  to  him  as  if  it  hiul  been  prompted  by 
his  own  thoughts,  and  he  went  on  upon  the 
new  idea  which  this  question  started. 

"Sbe  saw  mo  write  it,  too — the  letter — 
and  she  saw  me  write  the  address.  There 
it  was  as  plain  as  diiy — the  address.  Dr. 
Morton,  I  wrote,  Lichfield  Asylum,  Lich- 
field, Berks.  But  she  didn't  look  at  it.  She 
helped  nie  put  it  in  the  post-ofHco.  Trai)ped ! 
trapped !  Oh  yes — the  keeper  trapped  !" 
ho  continued.  "  She  thought  we  were  going 
to  Dudleigh  Manor,  but  we  were  going  tQ 
Lichfield  Asylum.  And  we  stopped  there. 
And  she  stopped  there.  And  she  is  tiiere 
now.  Trapped!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  And,  my 
good  doctor,  keep  her  close,  for  slie's  mad. 
Oh  yes — mad — mad — mad— and  very  dan- 
geroiis !" 

The  wretched  man  now  began  to  totter 
from  weakness,  and  finally  sat  down  upon 
the  floor.  Here  he  gathered  his  quilt  about 
him,  and  began  to  smile  and  chuckle  and 
wag  his  head  and  pick  at  his  fantastic  dress 
iis  before.  Tlio  words  which  ho  nnittered 
were  inaudible,  and  those  which  could  bo 
heard  were  utterly  incoherent.  The  subject 
that  had  been  presented  to  his  mind  by  the 
entrance  of  Reginald  was  now  forgotten,  and 
his  thoughts  wandered  at  random,  like  the 
thoughts  of  a  feverish  dream,  without  con- 
nection and  without  meaning. 

Reginald  turned  away.  He  could  no  lon- 
ger endure  so  painful  a  spectacle.  He  had 
been  long  estranged  from  his  father,  and  he 
had  come  home  for  the  sake  of  obtaining 
justice  from  that  father,  for  the  sake  of  the 
innocent  man  who  had  sufiered  so  unjustly 
and  so  terribly,  and  whom  ho  loved  as  a  sec- 
ond father.  Yet  here  there  was  a  spectacle 
which,  if  he  had  been  a  vengeful  enemy, 
would  have  (illed  him  with  horror.  One  only 
feeling  was  present  in  his  mind  now  to  alle- 
viate that  horror,  and  this  was  a  sense  of 
profouiul  relief  that  this  terrible  atlliction 
had  not  been  wrought  by  any  act  of  his.  He 
had  no  hand  in  it.  It  had  come  ui)on  his 
father  either  as  the  gradual  result  of  years 
of  anxiety,  or  as  the  innnediate  efi'ect  of  the 
suilden  appearance  of  Dalton  and  his  wife. 

But  for  these  thoughts  there  was  no  lei- 
sure.    His  whole  mind  was  filled  with  but 


one  idea — his  mother.  In  a  few  momentB 
they  were  outside  the  room.  The  madnnin 
was  left  to  himself,  and  Reginald  questioned 
Leon  about  him. 

"  I  have  heard  all  this  before,"  said  Leon. 
"He  came  home  very  queer,  and  before  a 
week  was  this  way.  I  put  him  in  there  to 
keep  him  out  of  mischief.  I  feed  him  myself. 
No  one  else  goes  near  him.  I've  hod  a  doc- 
tor up,  but  ho  could  do  nothing.  He  has 
often  talked  in  this  way  about  trapping  some 
one,  but  ho  never  mentioned  any  name  till 
to-day.  He  never  did — I  swoar  he  never 
did.  I  swear  I  had  no  idea  that  he  had  ref- 
erence to  my — to  Lady  Dudleigh.  I  thought 
it  wiis  some  crazy  fancy  about  Mr.  Dalton — 
some  scheme  of  his  for  •  trapping'  him.  I 
did — I  swear." 

Such  was  Leon's  statement,  extorted  from 
him  by  the  fiercest  of  cross-questionings  on 
the  part  of  Reginald,  accompanied  by  most 
savage  threats. 

Leon,  however,  swore  that  he  thought  it 
referred  to  a  scheme  of  his  father's  to  "  traji' 
Dalton,  and  shut  him  up  in  a  mad-house.  If 
it  was  true  that  no  names  had  been  men- 
tioned, Reginald  saw  that  it  was  (luite  pos- 
sible that  Leon  might  have  supposed  what 
he  said,  though  his  knowledge  of  his  brother 
did  not  lead  him  to  place  any  particular  con- 
fideiu-e  in  his  statement,  even  when  accom- 
panied by  an  oath. 

It  now  remained  to  find  out,  without 
delay,  the  place  which  the  madman  had  re- 
vealed. Reginald  reinenibei'ed  it  well :  Dr. 
Morton,  Lichfield  Asylum,  Lichfield,  Berks. 
Leon  also  said  that  the  same  name  had  been 
always  mentioned.  There  could  not,  there- 
fore, be  any  mistake  about  this,  and  it  only 
remained  to  find  out  where  it  was. 

Leon  knew  both  the  man  and  the  pl.ace, 
aiul  told  all  thiit  he  knew,  not  because  ho 
had  a  particle  of  aftection  for  his  mother,  but 
because  he  wished  to  satisfy  Reginald,  so  as 
to  gain  that  freedom  which  his  brother  only 
could  give  him.  He  had  been  the  intimate 
confidant  of  his  father,  and  this  Dr.  Morton 
had  been  connected  with  them  provionsly  in 
another  affair.  Ho  was  therefore  able  U» 
give  explicit  iuforniatiou  about  the  place, 
and  the  quickest  manner  of  reaching  it. 

Reginald  set  off  that  very  day. 

"  It  will  be  better  for  you  to  st.ay  here," 
said  he  to  Leon,  as  he  was  leaving,  in  a  sig- 
nificant tone. 

"  Oh,  I'll  stay,"  said  Leon.  "  If  you  act 
square,  that's  all  I  want.  Give  me  those 
notes  and  bonds,  and  I'll  never  trouble  you 
or  yours  again." 

Before  leaving  he  obtained  from  Leon  fur- 
ther information  about  his  first  marriage 
with  Miss  Fortesene.  This  ho  communi- 
cated to  Leon's  wife,  whom  ho  found  wait- 
ing for  him  in  great  suspense.  As  soon  as 
she  heard  it  she  set  out  for  London  to  find 
the  witness  mentioned  by  Leon ;  after  which 


all 

tl 

lei 
t<{ 

H 

lol 

ce 

arl 

acl 

till 

viJ 

thl 

prl 

Stil 

;usU 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Xtt 


she  intcndod  to  go  to  Falkirk  iu  search  of 
tliu  ck-rgyiiiaii. 

After  parting  with  Leon's  wife,  Reginuld 
loft  by  the  lirHt  truin,  en  route  for  Dr.  Mor- 
ton's asylum  atLichtiuld,  in  acconlance  with 
Loon's  diroetious.  On  the  middle  of  the  fol- 
lowing day  ho  reuehed  the  place. 

Ho  cume  there  accompanied  by  two  offi- 
cers of  tlio  law,  who  had  a  waiTant  for  the 
arrest  of  Dr.  Morton  on  a  charge  of  consjtir  • 
acy  and  illegal  imprisoument.  Th  ,t  dis- 
tingnislied  pliysician  came  down  to  see  his 
visitors,  nnder  the  impression  that  one  of 
them  was  a  patient,  and  was  very  much  sur- 
prised when  lie  found  himself  under  arrest. 
Still  more  8ur[»rised  was  ho  wlien  Reginald 
jusked  him,  fiercely,  after  Lady  Dudleigh. 

In  a  few  momttnts  the  door  of  Lady  Diid- 
leigh's  room  was  flung  open,  and  the  almost 
despairing  inmate  found  herself  in  the  arms 
of  lier  son.  She  looked  feeble  and  emacia- 
ted, though  not  so  much  so  as  Reginald  had 
feared.  Slie  had  known  too  much  of  the 
sorrows  of  life  to  yield  altogether  to  this 
new  calauiity.  Her  chief  grief  had  been 
about  others,  the  fear  that  they  might  have 
become  the  prey  of  the  villain  who  had  shut 
her  in  here;  but  in  spite  of  her  terrible  sus- 
l)ense,  she  struggled  against  the  gloom  of  her 
situation,  and  tried  to  hope  for  release.  It 
had  come  at  last,  and  with  it  came  also  the 
news  that  there  was  no  longer  any  need  for 
her  or  for  Reginald  to  take  any  proceedings 
against  the  guilty  husband  and  father,  since 
he  liad  been  struck  down  by  a  more  power- 
ful arm. 

Wlien  they  went  away,  Dr.  Morton  was 
taken  away  also.  In  due  time  he  was  tried 
on  the  charge  above  mentioned.  He  show- 
ed, however,  that  Lady  Dudleigh  had  been 
l)ut  under  his  care  by  Sir  Lionel  himself,  and 
in  the  usual  way  ;  that  Sir  Lionel  had  speoi- 
iied  the  nature  of  her  insanity  to  consist  in 
the  belief  that  she  was  his  wife,  and  that  so 
long  as  she  maintained  that  belief  he  thought 
her  actually  insane.  He  showed  that,  apart 
from  tliat  confinement  which  he  had  deemed 
requisite,  she  had  been  treated  with  no  un- 
necessary cruelty.  Many  other  things  he 
also  showed,  by  means  of  which  he  contrived 
to  o))tain  an  acquittal.  Still,  so  much  came 
out  in  the  course  of  the  trial,  and  so  very 
narrow  was  his  escape,  and  so  strong  wiis  his 
fear  of  being  re-arrested  on  other  chi'.rges, 
that  ho  concluded  to  emigrate  to  another 
country,  and  this  ho  did  without  delay. 

Hut  Reginald  returned  at  once  with  his 
mother  to  Dudleigh  Manoi*.  Here  Lady 
Diulleigh  for  a  few  days  sank  under  the  ef- 
fe(its  of  the  accumulated  troubles  through 
whicli  she  had  passed,  and  when  at  lengtli 
she  was  able  to  nu)ve  about.  Sir  Lionel  was 
the  first  one  of  whom  she  thouglit,  and  she 
at  once  devoted  herself  to  him.  Hut  tlui 
wretched  mau  was  already  beyond  the  reach 
of  her  care.     His  strength  w^is  failing  rapid- 


ly ;  he  refused  all  nourishment ;  hia  mind 
was  a  hoiieless  wreck;  ho  n^eognized  no 
one;  and  all  that  was  now  loft  to  the  wife 
to  do  was  to  watch  over  him  and  nurse  him 
as  patiently  as  possible  until  the  end,  which 
she  knew  must  bo  near. 

In  the  excitement  consequent  upon  his 
first  return,  his  interviews  with  Leon  an<l 
Sir  Lionel,  his  rescue  of  Lady  Dudleigli,  and 
his  deep  anxiety  about  her  after  her  release, 
Reginald  had  sent  no  word  to  Edith  of  any 
kind.  This  arose  neither  from  neglect  nor 
forgetfulness,  but  because  his  surroundings 
were  too  sad,  and  he  liad  not  the  heart  to 
write  to  her  until  some  brighter  prospect 
should  appear.  His  mother's  short  illness 
at  first  alarmed  him ;  but  this  jjasstnl  away, 
and  on  her  recovery  he  felt  sufficiently  cheer- 
ful to  send  to  Edith  an  account  of  all  that 
had  occurred. 

Ten  days  had  passed  since  he  parted  with 
her.  On  the  day  after  ho  wrote  to  her  ho 
received  a  letter  from  her.  It  was  tlie  first 
connnunication  fliathe  had  received. 

Tiiat  letter  conveyed  to  him  awfid  intelli- 
gence. It  informed  him  of  the  arrest  of 
Edith  and  Frederick  Daltou. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

CONX'LUSION. 

Tins  intelligence  was  so  terrible  and  so 
nnexpected  that  for  some  time  he  felt  over- 
whelmed with  utter  horror.  Tlien  a  dark 
suspicion  camo  to  him  that  this  was  tho 
work  of  Leon,  who,  enraged  at  his  baffled 
schemes,  had  dealt  tliis  last  blow  upon  those 
whom  he  had  already  so  deeply  wronged. 
Tliis  suspicion  roused  the  utmost  fury  of 
RegiuiiJd's  nature,  and  ho  hurried  forth  at 
once  to  seek  his  brother. 

He  found  him  sauntering  up  and  down  in 
fi'ont  of  the  liouse.  Leon  had  renuiiued  hero 
ever  since  his  interview  with  Reginald,  in 
accordance  with  his  promise.  As  lie  now 
saw  his  brother  aiqiroacli,  ho  started,  and 
looked  at  him  with  an  expression  of  aston- 
ishment not  unuiingled  with  terror. 

Witliout  any  preliminaries,  Reginald  at 
once  assailed  him  with  tho  nu)st  vi^heiiu'Ut 
denunciations,  and  in  a  few  burning  words, 
full  of  abhorrence  aiul  wrath,  he  accused 
him  of  this  new  piece  of  villainy. 

"  You're  wrong — you're  wrong — you're  al- 
together wrong!"  cried  Leon,  eagerly.  "I 
have  done  nothing — I  swear  Tve  done  noth- 
ing !     I've  never  left  tho  place." 

"You've  sent  word!"  cried  Reginald,  fu- 
riously. 

"I  have  not — I  swear  I  haven't!''  said 
Leon.  "  I  haven't  written  a  line  to  any 
one.  I've  had  no  communication  whatever 
with  a  single  soul." 

"  It's  your  work,  and  yours  only !"  cried 


170 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


Itofifinaltl;  "and,  by  Ilnavon,  you  hIiivH  siif- 
i'or  Ibr  it !  You'vo  lirokcii  tlio  ajirniemoiit 
liotwecii  UH,  and  now  I'll  mIiow  you  no 
intjrcy !" 

"I  haven't  brokon  it!  I  swear  by  all 
tliat'H  nioHt  holy!"  crird  Leon,  earneHtly. 
"  I  see  liow  it  is.  TIhh  is  nuTely  tho  resiilt 
of  the  old  runioi'H — the  old  work  going  on. 
I  Hwcar  it  is!  Hesides,  what  danger  ean 
hajiiK^n  to  Miss  Daltoii  T  1  need  only  show 
myself.  I'll  go  there  with  you  at  once.  Can 
1  do  more  than  that  f  When  I  am  seen  alive, 
there  is  no  more  danger  for  her.  Do  you 
think  I'd  he  siudi  an  infernal  fo(d  as  to  work 
out  siu'h  a  piece  of  spite,  wliicli  I  would 
know  to  bo  utterly  useless?  No.  I  only 
want  to  wind  up  the  whole  afl'air,  aiul  get 
my  freedom.  I'll  go  there  with  you  or  with- 
out you,  and  make  it  all  right  so  far  as  she 
is  concerned.  There.  Cuu  I  do  any  thing 
more  V 

These  words  mollified  Reginald  in  some 
degree,  since  they  showed  that,  after  all, 
this  uew  trouble  might,  as  Leon  said,  have 
arisen  from  old  machinations,  as  their  nat- 
ural result,  and  di<l  not  necessarily  involve 
any  new  action  on  Leon's  part. 

"  I'll  go,"  said  Reginald,  "  and  yon  shall 
go  with  me;  but  if  I  lind  that  you  have 
l)layed  me  false  this  time,  by  Heaven,  I'll 
crush  you !" 

Reginald,  accompanied  by  Leon,  hurried 
oft"  at  once  to  the  succor  of  Edith,  and  ar- 
rived there  on  the  following  day.  It  was 
the  fifth  day  of  their  imprisonment,  but,  lo 
Reginald's  immense  relief,  this  new  misfor- 
tune did  not  seem  to  have  afftscted  either  of 
them  HO  jiainfuUy  as  he  had  feared.  For  to 
Edith  imprisonment  was  familiar  now,  and 
this  time  she  had  tho  discovery  of  Miss  For- 
toscuo  to  console  her.  Besides,  sho  had  her 
father  to  think  of  and  to  care  for.  The 
kindness  of  the  authorities  had  allowed  the 
two  to  be  together  a«  much  as  possible ;  and 
Edith,  in  the  endeavor  to  console  her  father, 
had  forced  herself  to  look  on  the  brighter 
side  of  things,  and  to  hope  for  the  best. 

Dalton,  too,  had  borne  this  arrest  with 
equanimity.  After  the  first  shock  w.as  past 
he  thought  over  all  th.at  was  most  favorable 
to  escape  rather  than  the  gloomier  surround- 
ings of  a  ituation  like  his.  For  himself  ho 
cared  nothing.  To  be  brought  once  more 
before  a  court  of  law  was  desir.able  rather 
than  otherwise.  His  arrangeuients  for  his 
own  vindication  were  all  coini)lete,  and  he 
knew  that  tho  court  could  only  accpnt  him 
with  honor.  But  about  Edith  he  felt  an 
anxiety  which  was  deeper  than  he  cared  to 
show,  for  ho  did  not  know  how  tho  evidence 
against  her  would  be  received. 

Tiie  arrival  of  Reginald,  however,  drove 
away  every  fear.  He  brought  tho  missing 
man  himself.  All  was  now  explained.  The 
news  ran  through  the  connnunity  like  wild- 
fire, and  public  opinion,  which  had  so  se- 


verely prejudged  Edith,  now  turned  around 
with  a  Hood  of  universal  sympathy  in  her 
favor.  Some  formalities  had  to  bo  under- 
gone, and  then  she  was  free. 

The  circumstances  that  had  brought  to 
light  Edith's  iiwiocenee  served  also  to  make 
knr)wn  the  innocence,  the  wrongs,  and  tho 
suflVa'ings  of  the  father.  Tho  whole  story 
of  J>alton  was  made  ]iublic  through  the  ex- 
ertions of  Reginald,  aiul  society,  which  had 
once  condennied  him,  now  souglit  to  vindi- 
cate him.  But  tho  work  of  vindication  had 
to  be  done  elsewhere,  and  in  a  morit  fornutl 
manner.  Until  then  Dalton  had  to  wait ; 
yet  tliis  nnieh  of  IxMU'lit  ho  rt'(!eived  fnuu 
public  sympathy,  that  he  was  allowed  to  go 
free  and  live  at  Dalton  Hall  until  the  law 
shoiihl  finally  decide  his  fate. 

Long  before  that  decision  Sir  Lionel  passed 
away  from  tho  judgment  of  man  to  answer 
for  his  crimes  at  a  higher  tribunal.  He 
passed  away  in  his  madness,  unconsiMous  of 
tho  presence  of  that  wife  whom  he  had 
doomed  to  exile,  and  Avho  now,  his  only  at- 
tendant, sought  to  soothe  tho  nuidniau's  last 
moments.  But  the  measures  that  were  taken 
to  vindicate  Daltcm  were  suceessful.  Lady 
Dudleigh  and  Reginald  could  give  their  evi- 
dence in  his  favor  without  the  fear  of  deal- 
ing out  death  to  ono  so  near  as  Sir  Lionel. 
Death  had  already  come  to  him,  sent  by  a 
mightier  power,  and  Dalton's  vindication 
involved  no  new  anguish.  So  it  was  that 
Frederick  Dalton  was  at  length  cleared  of 
that  guilt  that  iiad  so  long  clung  to  him ; 
and  if  any  thing  could  atono  for  his  past 
suRorings,  it  was  the  restoration  of  his  name 
to  its  ancient  honor,  the  public  expression 
of  sympathy  from  the  court  and  from  the 
world,  and  the  deeji  joy  of  Edith  over  such 
a  termination  to  his  s(nrows. 

But  this  was  a  work  of  time.  Before  this 
Reginald  and  Edith  were  married.  Tlujy 
lived  at  Dudleigh  Manor,  for  the  associa- 
tions of  Dalton  Hall  were  too  painful,  and 
Edith  did  not  care  to  make  a  homo  in  her 
old  prison-house.  To  her  father,  too,  the 
Hall  was  distasteful  as  a  residence,  and  ho 
made  his  abode  with  his  daughter,  who 
was  now  the  only  one  on  earth  in  whom 
he  took  any  interest.  But  Dalton  Hall  was 
not  initenanted.  Lady  Dudleigh  lived  there 
in  the  old  home  of  her  childhood,  and  passed 
her  time  in  works  of  charity.  She  made  an 
(iftbrt  to  reclaim  Leon,  and  succeeded  in 
keeping  him  with  her  for  a  few  weeks  ;  but 
tho  quiet  life  soon  proved  intolerable,  and  ho 
wandered  away  at  length  to  other  scenes. 

Reginald  had  dealt  faithfully  and  even 
generously  by  him.  After  all  his  crimes  aiul 
villainies,  he  could  not  forget  that  ho  was 
his  brother,  atul  ho  had  done  all  in  his 
power  to  renew  his  life  for  him.  He  had 
given  him  all  the  claims  which  he  had  col- 
lected, and  thus  had  freed  him  from  debt. 
He  had  also  given  him  money  enough  to  en- 


THE  LIVING  LINK. 


in 


ahlo  liitn  to  start  afrosli  in  life.  But  tho 
niuiicy  wuH  hood  guiic,  and  tho  habitn  wliich 
Leon  had  foruKid  niadu  any  chaiigo  for  tho 
bottor  iniiiosHible.  Ho  waiidorod  away  int'' 
liiii  furnior  aHHOciatioiiH  and  Iioeanio  u  uiin- 
craltle  vagabond,  constantly  Hinkin;;  (h)\vn 
(loop  into  Hiisory,  to  bo  Havod  for  a  tinio  by 
liJM  njotlioi*'a  aHuiHtauco,  but  only  to  sink 
onco  uioro. 

Montiou  must  bo  made  of  two  others  be- 
fore this  Htory  closes. 

One  of  those  is  Leon's  wife.  Slio  wont 
away  from  Dudlcigli  Manor  to  Scotland  in 
search  of  the  clorf^ynian  who  had  nuirricd 
lier.  She  succeeded  in  linding  him,  and  in 
t>btaining  from  him  a  formal  certificate  of 
lior  marriage.  This,  however,  was  not  for 
the  pnipose  of  acquiring  any  h(dd  whatever 
njion  Leon,  but  rather  for  the  sake  of  her 
uwu  honor,  and  also  out  of  regard  for  Edith, 


whom  she  wished  to  free  from  the  last  shad- 
ow of  that  evil  which  her  own  deceit  had 
thrown  U]ion  tho  innocent  girl.  After  this 
she  was  sr'islied.  She  did  in)t  seek  Leon 
again,  nor  did  she  evi<r  again  see  him.  She 
retired  from  the  world  altogether,  and  join- 
ing a  si.Hterhood  of  mercy,  devoted  the  re- 
mainder of  her  life  tu  acts  of  charity  and 
humanity. 

Last  of  all  remains  Miss  Plym]iton,  with 
whom  this  story  began,  ami  with  whom  it 
nniy  end.  That  good  lady  recovered  from 
the  illness  into  which  she  had  fallen  on  ac- 
(M)Unt  of  lH!r  anxiety  about  Edith,  ami  was 
able  to  visit  her  not  long  after  her  release 
from  her  last  imiuisoiuuent.  She  had  given 
ni>  her  school ;  and  as  she  had  no  home,  she 
yielded  to  Edith's  atiectioiiato  entreaties, 
and  found  a  new  homo  with  her,  where  she 
passed  the  reuiuiuder  of  her  days. 


TUE  END, 


J 


ty 


Mol 

] 
( 

r 

"Th 
world 
only  b] 
fill.  H 
ed  is  tl 
erally  I 
not  per 
io  uiis( 
prepare 
I'Plves  t 

flltlKIIIS 

they  an 

Harp 

Be 
Ita 
anc 
Rii 
Th 
urn 

NordI 

Nor 
of  ' 
8vo. 

"Mr.  N 
f>f  our  Pii 
California 
The  new 
its  predec 
n..;unil  PI 
the  rei,'i(>ii 
Kiiidiinoe  c 
Mr.  Non 
voliiriins,  n 
>norc  than 
la.ist  carol 


JUNE   BOOK-LIST. 

jy  Harper  &  Brothess  «////  j««i/  a>y  ef  the  following  books  by  mail,  postage  pref^id,  to  any  fart  if  the 

United  States,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 

^W  Harper's  Catalocub  and  Harpbu's  Trade-List  tuiUbe  sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  Six  Cents. 


Motley's  Life  and  Death  of  John  of  Barneveld. 


Life  and  Dea*h  of  John  of  Harneveld,  Advocate  of  Holland.  With  a  View  of  the  Primary 
Causes  and  Movements  of  "  The  Thirty  Years'  War."  ]!y  John  L^jthrop  Mcjtley,  D.C.L., 
Author  of  "  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,"  "  History  of  the  United  Netherlands,"  &c. 
With  Illustrations.  In  Two  Volumes.  8vo,  Cloth,  $7  00.  (Uniform  with  Motley's  "  Dutch 
Republic"  and  "United  Netherlands.") 


takes  to  his  arms,  the  priest  to  whom  he  confesses  his 
secrets,  the  stnlesmnu  who  forwards,  ns  he  fancies,  lii^i 
royal  intentions.  These  are  the  real  rulers  of  manliinii, 
and  their  influence  is  still  unshiiken.  It  was  para- 
mount in  the  Europe  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries,  the  EurojH!  of  Philip  the  Second,  Henry  the 
Fourth,  Elizabctli  and  James,  and— John  of  Biirne- 
vold.    Spain  hud  Its  Onke  of  Lernia,  France  its  Stilly, 


"The  greatest  men  are  not  always  those  whom  the 
world  considers  such.  To  the  world,  which  judges 
only  by  what  it  sees,  th«  greatest  are  the  most  success- 
ful. History  is  a  stage  where  he  who  is  most  applaud- 
ed is  the  best  actor.  That  many  of  the  players,  gen- 
erally tiie  royal  ones,  are  puppets,  the  spectators  do 
not  perceive.  The  wires  by  which  they  are  moved  are 
in  unseen  hands;  the  parts  which  they  i)erform  are 
prepared  by  unknown  brains.  Kings  Hatter  them-  ,  England  its  Cecil  and  Walslngliam,  and  the  Nether 
selves  that  it  is  they  who  govern  their  subjects,  and  j  lands  their  John  of  Barneveld.  If  he  was  not  the 
fiiMioiis  captains  th»t  it  is  they  who  win  battles;  but  greatest  man  of  his  time,  no  man  was  greater,  though 
they  are  mistaken.    It  is  the  favorite  wliom  the  king    unc  was  more  fortuuate  because  more  uuscriipuluus." 

Harper's  Hand-Book  for  Travellers  in  Enrope  and  the  East. 

15eing  a  Guide  thiough  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  France,  Belgium,  Iloliaml,  Germany, 
Italy,  Egypt,  Syria,  Turkey,  Greece,  Switzerland,  Tyrol,  Denmark,  Norway,  Sweden,  Russia, 
and  Spain.  With  over  One  Hundred  Ma])s  and  Plans  of  Cities.  By  W.  Pemhroke  Fi'.t- 
rii)<;e.  Author  of  "  H.nrper'.s  rhr.i.se-Book  "  and  "  Rise  and  F:ill  of  the  Paris  Commune."  In 
Three  Volumes,  i2mo.  Full  leather,  Pocket-Iiook  Form,  $3  00  per  vol. ;  or  the  Three  Vol- 
innes  in  one,  similar  Binding,  $7  00, 

Nordlioff's  Northern  California,  Oregon,  and  the  Sandwich  Islands. 

Northern  California,  Oregon,  and  the  Sandwich  Islands.  By  Chari.es  Noudhoif,  Author 
of  "California:  foi  Health,  Pleasure,  and  Residence,"  &c.,  &c.  Profusely  Illustrated. 
8\o.  Cloth,  ■$,!  50  ;  Paper,  52  00. 


"Mr.  NordhofT  has  here  completed  the  account 
of  our  Pacific  Coast,  begun  in  Ills  jircvloiis  volume, 
Oid'/iirMi'u ;  fur  lliitlth,  Pleamire,  and  Ilsiilnire. 
The  new  book  has  the  d.me  features  wlitrli  miide 
its  predecessor  so  successful— lively  descriptions  of 
n.itural  scenery,  full  accounts  of  the  resources  of 
the  region  visited,  and  caref.il  details  for  the  use  and 
guidance  of  travelers  nnd  settlers. 

Mr.  NordhofT  has  aimed  to  prepare,  in  these  two 
voliuMCs,  a  gnidc-hook  which  should  give  somcllilng 
more  than  a  mere  list  of  names.  He  t'ON,  with  the 
i;M*t  careful  detail,  wiial  the  traveler  ou^'ht  10  see. 


how  to  see  it,  nnd  tlie  time  as  well  as  the  money  he 
will  need  to  spend  in  his  siglit-seeing.  For  the  nx  t 
practical  settler  or  en  '.grant,  this  volume  lias  1.  t 

variety  of  useful  Information  a"  to  the  climate, ,.  ic- 
tlons,  health,  and  tate  of  Bocicly  of  the  regions  de- 
scribed. 

Mr.  NordholTs  flrft  volume  otitained  an  immediate 
and  extraordinary  success  ;  and  the  present,  w  lilch  is 
a  comp.inicm  to  it— or,  rather,  its  sequel  completes 
the  tour  of  the  Pacific  coa«t,  lncludiii„'  the  Saiidwicli 
Islands,  has  the  same  r  Tits,  nnd,  like  the  first.  Is 
very  fully  and  fluely  illu..irated." 


Harper  ^5^•  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


Schweinfurth's  Heart  of  Africa. 

The  Heart  of  Africa ;  or,  Three  Years'  Travels  and  Adventures  in  the  Unexplored  Regions 
of  the  Centre  of  Africa.  From  1868  to  1871.  By  Dr.  Georg  Schweinfurth.  Trans- 
lated by  Ellen  E.  Frewer.  With  an  Introduction  by  WinwooI)  Reade.  Illustrated  by 
about  130  Woodcuts  from  Drawings  made  by  the  Author,  and  with  Two  Maps.  2  vols., 
8vo,  Cloth,  U8  00. 


The  thvee  great  fea'iires  of  Schweinfurth's  book  are,  I 
first,  his  great  coiitributiaiis  to  the  hydrography  of  1 
Central  Africa ;  next,  his  rediscovery  of  the  Pygmies  | 
—  always  thought  fabulous  when  mentioued  in  the  | 
pages  of  Herodotus  and  the  old  poets ;  and  thirdly, 
the  dreadful  'jut  useful  light  which  he  throws  on  the  ! 
slave-hunting  system  and  the  work  begun  for  the 
Egyptian  government  by  Sir  Samuel  Baker.  In  re- 
gard to  the  question  of  the  Nile,  it  may  be  briefly 
stated  that  Schweinfurth  crossed  the  western  water- 
shed of  that  river,  and  having  arrived  where  the 
Lualaba  must  come  —  if  it  come  northward  at  all, 
and  not  into  the  Nyanza  — he  found  the  Welle,  the 
Keebaly,  the  Gadda,  and  all  the  streams  of  the  land 
flowing  westward,  and  |)rol)iibly  to  the  Shary.  This 
does  not  "settle  the  Lualaba,"  but  it  proves  the  exist- 
ence of  a  separate  river  system  where  Livingstone 
and  Stanley  thought  there  might  be  fouud  the  cou- 
tinuous  channel  of  the  Bahr-el-Ghazal.  As  to  the 
Pygmies,  the  German  discovered  them  in  a  little  peo- 
I)lc,  averaging  four  feet  seven  inches  in  height,  living 
south  of  King  Muuza's  territory.  They  are  called  the 
Akka.  Besides  seeing  a  great  company  of  the  dimin- 
utive savages,  the  traveler  actually  obtained  one,  call- 
ed Tikkitikki,  and  brought  him  iu  good  health  as 
far  as  Egypt,  where  he  sickened  and  died  from  over- 
sumptuous  food.  The  Akka  are  a  separate  nation 
— great  hunters  and  fighters,  like  the  Bushmen  of 
South  Africa,  whom  they  greatly  resemble;  and 
there  is  little  doubt  that  they  represent  the  nborig- 
iniil  human  race  of  the  continent,  while  they  seem  in 
feature  and  habit  to  carry  humanity  some  degrees 
closer  to  the  "  missing  link."  The  Moubuttos  and  the 
Niam-niams,  among  whom  the  doctor  lived  for  a  long 
time,  are  confirmed  canaibals ;  and  one  of  the  most 
curious  points  of  the  description  is  i  ■>  how  that  this 
unpleasant  foible  iis  uot  incompatible  with  marked 
advance  in  social  arts  and  manners.  For  instance, 
these  man-caters,  the  Niam-niams,  are  affectionate 
husbands  and  wives,  and  will  surrender  the  most 
cherished  possession  to  buy  back  one  of  their  house- 
hold, if  captured  by  the  slave-hunters  or  by  a  hostile 
tribe.  The  Pygmies,  therefore,  exist,  as  Herodotus 
said,  i\  jugh  they  arc  rather  too  large  for  the  cranes  to 
engage,  i.aslly,  the  drfadful  pictures  of  war,  rapine, 
famine,  and  speechless  misery,  the  horrible  conse- 
quences of  the  slave-trade,  must  awaken  the  con- 
Bcience  of  Euro|)e,  which  can  not  rest  until  measures 
are  taken  to  restrain  these  wicked  men-hunters.  Al- 
together, the  journey  which  we  have  cited  is  a  most 
memorable  contribiuion  to  the  work  of  African  dis- 
covery, and  proves  more  than  ever  what  a  rich  and 
splendid  land  it  is  which  awaits  the  life  and  liglit  of 
knowledge  around  those  niagniflrent  sweet-'vaterseas 
of  th>!  "  Heart  of  Afrlciu"— /ximion  rilciraph. 

All  persons  who  are  really  interested  in  Africa— 
and  in  the  present  day  their  name  is  legion— should 
contrive  to  devote  themselves  to  an  attjntivc  perusal 
of  "  The  Heart  of  Africa."— i.i<<Tor(/  World,  Loudon. 


One  of  the  remarkable  features  of  this  interesting 
book  is  the  immense  patience  and  pluck  displayed  by 
its  author.  *  •  *  But  in  the  book  itself  we  find  indirect 
evidence  of  a  multifarious  Industry  and  energy  such  as 
few  travelers  have  before  exhibited.  *  *  *  It  may  bo 
imagined  from  the  multifarious  interests  of  Dr. 
Schweinfurth  himself  how  much  interesting  matter  he 
has  collected,  and  to  how  many  different  tastes  his 
book  will  appeal.— Pa(J  Hall  Gazette,  London. 

Dr.  Schweinfurth's  work  is  a  most  valuable  con- 
tribution to  our  knowledge  of  Inner  Africa.    We  have 
here  the  matured  results  of  an  accomplished  mau  of 
I  science,  who  combines  all  the  qualities  of  a  good  trav- 
eler with  the  power  of  conveying  to  others  the  rich 
stores  of  information  he  has  collected  and  classified  iu 
I  a  very  agreeable  form. — Ocean  Highwatis,  London. 
I     Dr.  Schweinfurth  has  unquestionably  taken  rank 
as  a  leading  African  explorer,  and  the  pre.-ent  work 
more  than  justifies  the  position  assigned  him  by  sci- 
j  entific  men.    Few  greater  books  of  travel  have  been 
written  in  our  day.  •  •  »  Dr.  Schweinfurth  has  also 
!  much  to  say  on  the  flora,  fauna,  and  physical  aspects  of 
I  the  countries  through  which  he  passed ;  and  enlivens 
his  tale  by  scores  of  drawings,  Bor>e  of  which  are  re- 
markably lifelike  and  artistic.    We  may  add  tliat,  al- 
j  though  he  never  obtrudes  himself,  wo  come  to  know 
I  him  by  a  thousand  unconscious  touches ;  and  we  do 
j  not  envy  those  who,  when  they  close  the  book,  have 
I  not  learned  to  admire  his  bright,  genial  nature,  min- 
I  gled  firmness  and  courtesy,  and  noble  devotion  to 
'  great  aims. — OMie,  London. 

j  Dr.  Schweinfurth  has  arrived  fresh  from  the  can- 
nibals of  Monbuttoo  with  human  skulls  and  bones  al- 
most warm  from  the  saucepans  of  the  •  iges.  lie 
can  even  describe  the  sauces  which  these  gourmands 
I  use  iu  their  dainty  dishes.  Such  men  as  Dr.  Schwein- 
furth will  always  have  the  regard  and  esteem  of  all 
true  friends  of  science ;  he  belongs  to  the  same  metal 
I  that  has  already  f  rmed  a  wedge  which  will  force  ojieu 
the  secrets  of  Inner  .\frica. — Xatiire,  London. 
I  Dr.  Schweinfurth  adds  to  the  accuracy  and  perspicac- 
'  ity  of  the  trained  ^cientillc  mind  a  charming  style, 
admirably  rendcreii  by  the  translator,  which  carries 
one  along  through  the  record  of  his  observations  and 
of  the  main  \  nrpoee  of  his  expedition— animated  by 
niany-sidcd  intelligence,  and  information  by  who^e 
,  extent  he  only  is  unimpressed,  and  guided  by  true 
German  thoroughness.  The  mau  interests  us  as  much 
as  the  facts,  by  his  self-abnegation,  his  quiet  taking 
for  granted  of  feats  upon  which  most  travelers  would 
have  'dasonably  dilated,  his  deliberate  manner  of  do- 
ing extraordinary  things,  his  calmness  iu  danger,  I- is 
patience  in  suffering,  and  tlie  stores  of  laboriously  ac- 
quired information  on  all  sorts  of  collateral  subjects 
on  which  he  draws  when  difllcultles  arise  and  (jpiii- 
ions  differ.  No  impatience,  no  anxiety  to  push  on 
and  get  over  intervening  space  disturbs  this  equani- 
mons  traveler,  who  is  perpetually  obecrvlug  every 
Mixii.—Upcctatur,  Londou. 


A  Fast  Life  on  the  Modern  Iliijliway. 


A  Fast  Life  on  the  Modern  Highway;  lx;inR  a  Glance  into  the  Railroad  World  from  a 
New  I'oint  of  View.     By  JosEni  Taylor.     Illustrated.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $1  50  ;  Taper,  $1  00. 

"Mr. .Tosoph  Taylor  has  been  for  many  years  con-  man  living.  He  has  written  a  lively,  enlertaining 
rortcd  with  railroad",  In  viirlons  ca|>acities,  and  prob-  book,  full  of  anecdote  and  skttchcs  of  character,  and 
ably  knows  more  about  life  on  the  rail  tliuu  any  other    ilhietrated  with  many  humorous  cngravingn," 


Harper  or*  Brothers^  List  of  New  Books. 


The  Christian  Pastor.    By  Dr.  Tyng. 

The  Office  and  Duty  of  a  Christian  Pastor.  By  Stephen  II.  TvNG,  D.D.,  Rector  of  St. 
George's  Church  in  the  City  of  New  V'ork.  Published  at  the  request  of  the  Students  and 
Faculty  of  the  School  of  Theology  in  the  Boston  University.     i2mo,  Cloth,  $i  25. 


Direct,  plain,  and  practical,  and  illustrated  all 
tliri)ii>;h  by  tlie  wealtli  of  experience  and  wisdom 
gained  in  a  busy  pabtorate  extending  over  fifty  years. 
— Boston  Daily  Advertixer. 

Mi)re  than  flfly  years  of  active  ministry  have  given 
this  distini^uishod  rector  ample  opportunity  for  wide 
observation  and  experience  in  his  calling,  and  what  he 
eayg  here  must  necessarily  be  valual)le.  The  volume 
would  be  an  acceptable  addition  to  every  minister's 
library.  It  treats  of  pastoral  duty  rather  than  pastor- 
al theology— which  gives  a  practical  turn— the  author 
dividing  his  subject  into  the  heads  of  a  pastor's 
objects,  qualifications,  instrumejits,  agencies,  power, 
and  attainments Itrookhjn  I'lunn. 

It  is  earnest  in  thought  and  unpretending  in  style. 
— Broukhjn  Eagle. 

It  embodies  the  results  of  his  observation  and  ex- 
perience in  an  active  ministry  extending  over  a  pe- 

Trollopc's  Lady  Anna. 


riod  of  more  tlian  half  a  century,  and  deals  with  the 
Christian  pastor  in  his  object,  his  qualifications,  his 
instruments,  his  agencies,  his  power,  and  his  attain- 
ments, simply,  practically,  and  with  logical  exactness. 
The  result  is  a  description  of  the  minister  of  the  Gos- 
pel in  his  two-fold  and  inseparable  offices  of  preachor 
and  pastor  both  forcible  and  complete.  Illustrations 
from  actual  occurrences  are  freely  given  to  enforce  tne 
truths  exhibited.  The  words  of  direction,  wurninj;, 
and  encouragement  are  charged  with  eloquence,  and 
with  an  earnestness  and  fervor  born  of  a  high  and 
just  conception  of  the  place  and  power  of  the  Chris- 
tian ministry.  It  is  well  that  the  venerable  author 
has  consented  to  publish  it.  The  topics  embraced 
in  it  are  of  paramount  importance.  Never  was  there 
a  greater  amount  of  error  prevalent  regarding  them. 
Karely  have  they  been  discussed  so  lucidly  and  prac- 
tically.— &'coHw/t-.lHu;n'i;oii  Journal,  New  York  City. 


Lady  Anna.     A  Novel.     By  Anthony  Troi.LOPE,  Author  of  "  The  Warden,"  "  Barchester 
Towers,"  "  Phine.is  Finn,"  "  Phineas  Redux,"  "  Dr.  Thorne,"  &c.,  &c.    8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


Victor  Hugo's  Ninety-Three. 

Ninety-Three.    A  Novel.    By  Victor  Hug 
bles,"  &c.    Translated  by  Frank  Lee  Bene 

Hugo  is  one  of  the  great  names  in  literiiture.  In 
"Ninety-Three"  we  have  probably  the  culmination 
of  its  author's  career  in  prose  fiction;  certainly  we 
find  in  it  all  hie  peculiar  traits,  whether  of  plot-con- 
trivance, character-drawing,  description,  style,  or 
moral  purpose. — -V.  Y.  Times. 

The  finest  historical  romance  yet  written  by  any 
French  author. — Philadelphia  /Vc«.s. 

Reproduces  with  powcrfulefTcct  the  scenes  of  the  Rev- 
ohition,  and  is  full  of  dramatic  interest A'.  1'.  tforW. 

Beautiful  sayings,  true  and  noble  thoughts,  inex- 
pressibly tender  sentiments.— /'a(i  Mall  Hudijet,  Lond. 

Nowhere  else  can  there  be  found  such  graphic  and 
etartling  pictures  of  the  French  Kevolution. — Albany 
Evening  Journal. 

Victor  Hugo  is  a  groat  thInUer  as  well  as  a  great 
novelist,  and  his  fictions  ought  to  be  read,  If  only  for 
the  instruction  and  suirLiestiiui  they  contain.  Other 
novelists  are  entertain i  11  u;  he  moves  and  convinces 
or  provokes  to  opposition.  He  is  one  of  the  most 
original  of  all  the  famous  writers  of  Europe  since 
Goethe's  Wme.—Sprinnfield  liepnhliean. 

The  consciousness  of  a  pervading  grandeur  and 
power  in  this  work  that  allows  of  its  admission  among 
the  truly  great  dramatic  novels  t)f  all  languages.— 
Vonton  I'ont. 

As  a  picture  of  the  Rei'^n  of  Terror,  and  the  master- 
spirits of  that  awful  perioil,  "Ninety-Three"  iniques- 
lionably  stands  among  the  <;rei\test  works  (.f  the  im- 
agination. It  belongs  to  that  higher  ra..ge  of  histor- 
ical fiction  which,  in  a  certain  sense,  is  more  truthful 
than  history.  The  reader  will  rise  from  its  i)crusal 
wiih  a  dearer  conception  of  the  men  and  the  events 
ofl'aiim-e  terrible  of  the  French  Revolution,  than  if  he 
had  given  years  of  study  to  the  chrouicles  of  lb  it  pe- 
Tim\.—lii>it<in  Journal. 

Second'Consin  .^arah. 


o.  Author  of  "  Toilers  of  the  Sea,"  "  Les  Mise'ra- 
DiCT.    Svo,  Paper,  75  cents  ;  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1  75. 

The  types  in  "Ninety-Three"  are  many  and  grand. 
— Athentsitm,  Limdon. 

The  grandeur  of  the  description,  the  skillful  inven- 
tion of  situations,  the  striking  portrayal  of  passion, 
the  exquisite  delineation  of  child  life,  the  amazing 
brilliancy  of  the  language  will  make  this  creation  of 
Victor  Hugo's  take  a  higher  rank  as  a  literary  pro- 
duction than  even  his  "Notre-Dame  de  Paris."— .S'cof- 
tinh-American  Journal,  New  York  City. 

"  Ninety-Three  "  will  have  a  hundred  thonsaad  read- 
ers.—Bosfon  Traveller. 

The  storming  of  the  castle  is  a  grand  piece  of  de- 
scriptive writing— intense  in  its  picturesque  realism, 
and  almost  overwhelming  in  its  vividness.  The  sub- 
sequent scenes  in  which  Gauvain  appears,  especially 
after  the  capture  of  the  Marcpiis,  are  full  of  pathos  and 
dignity.  The  final  interview  between  him  and  Cimour- 
dain  is  exquisitely  told,  and  the  concluding  chapters 
deserve  to  rank  among  the  finest  things  that  Victor 
Hugo  has  ever  given  to  the  world.  An  interview  be- 
tween Robespierre,  Danton,  and  Marat,  in  the  early 
part  of  the  book,  is  also  a  masterpiece.  These  three 
ruling  spirits  of  Ihi-  Terror  are  superbly  drawn  and 
ma^rnifiicntly  individualized.  They  stand  out  niar- 
volously  real  in  every  distinctive  peculiarity  of  dress, 
face,  and  mental  characleri-'tic.  The  livid,  dirty,  and 
snake-like  Marat,  the  cautious,  cold,  and  dandi'"sd 
Robespierre,  and  the  huge,  reckless,  and  dariiii;  Dan- 
ton  were  never  before  so  grandly  sketched.  The 
word-pictures  that  Iliiiio  has  given  of  I'lom  haunt  the 
memory  as  vividly  as  though  one  had  ga/.ed  upon  and 
he.ird  the  originals  in  the  blood-chiUini;  interview  do- 
scribed.  The  work  has  been  translated  by  Frank  Lee 
Renedicf,  who  has  performed  his  task  wonderfully  well, 
preserving  the  style  and  in.mner  of  his  author  wilh 
remarkable  skill.— t'osfun  Saturday  Eveninj  (Jazttte. 


Second-Cotisin  Sar.ih.  A  Novel.  By  F.  W.  RoniNSON,  Author  of  "Little  Kate  Kirby," 
"For  Her  Sake,"  "  Poor  Humanity,"  "Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune,"  "Carry's  Confession," 
SiC,  &c.     Illustrated.    Svo,  Paper,  75  cents. 


Harper  &•  Brothers'  List  of  New  Books. 


Winchell's  Doctrine  of  Evolution. 


The  Doctrine  of  Evolution :  Its  Data,  its  Principles,  its  Speculations,  and  its  Theistic  Bear- 
ings. By  Alexander  Winchell,  LL.D.,  Chancellor  ol  Syracuse  University,  Author  of 
"Sketches  of  Creation,"  "Geological  Chart,"  Reports  on  the  Geology  and  Physiography 
of  Michigan,  &c,  &c     i2mo,  Cloth,  j5l  oo. 


"  In  this  admirable  treatise  Prof.  Wincliell  gives  a 
succinct  statement  of  tlje  doctrine  of  evolution,  to- 
gettier  witli  a  clear  and  impartial  summary  of  tbe  ar- 
guments on  both  sides  of  ttie  controversy.  IIi!<  object 
being  merely  to  give  a  cumprebeusive  view  of  the 


subject,  he  neither  attacks  nor  defends  the  doctrine; 
and  readers  who  want  to  know  what  evolution  means, 
and  to  make  themselves  acquainted  with  the  viewg 
of  tbe  scientists  who  have  made  the  doctrine  a  study, 
will  find  this  volume  an  invaluable  absistauU" 


l)r( 


John  Worthington's  Name.    By  Frank  Lee  Benedict. 

John  Worthington's  Name.  A  Novel.  By  Frank  Lee  Benedict,  Author  of  "  My  Daugh- 
ter Elinor,"  "Miss  Van  Kortland,"  "Miss  Dorothy's  Charge,"  &c.  8vo,  Paper,  $i  oo; 
Cloth,  ^i  SO. 


Evanj^elical  Alliance  Conference,  1873. 


History,  Essays,  Orations,  and  Other  Documents  of  the  Sixth  General  Conference  of  the 
Evangelical  Alliance,  held  in  New  York,  October  2-12,  1873.  Edited  by  Rev.  Philip  Schafk, 
D.D,.  and  Rev.  S.  Iren/EUS  Prime,  D.D.  With  Portraits  of  Rev.  Messrs.  Pronier,  Carrasco, 
and  Cook,  recently  deceased.  8vo,  Cloth,  nearly  See  pages,  J6  00;  Sheep,  jSy  00;  Half 
Calf,  $8  50. 


About  one  hundred  men,  from  various  parts  of  the 
world,  eminent  for  learning,  ability,  and  worth,  hold- 
ing high  rank  in  theology,  philosophy,  science,  and 
literature,  men  of  genius,  power,  and  fame,  were  care- 
fully selected,  and  invited  to  prepare  them.-^elves,  by 
months  and  years  of  study,  for  the  discussion  of  themes 
of  immediate  and  vital  importance.  They  were  chos- 
en, as  the  men  of  thought  and  purpose  best  fitted  to 
produce  Ticiitises  which  should  exhibit,  in  the  most 
thorough  and  exhaustive  form,  the  Tbutu,  as  sustained 
by  the  Holy  Scripture  and  the  most  advanced  and  en- 
lightened human  reason.  The  results  of  this  concen- 
trated thought  and  labor  ore  embodied  in  this  volume. 

Kaiely  bus  a  volume  issued  from  the  press  which 


contained  a  more  varied  and  extensive  array  of  talent 
and  experience. 

The  vita!  topics  of  Evangelical  Theology,  the  delicate 
relations  of  Science  and  Ueligion,  the  difUcult  subjects 
of  practical  Benevolence,  Philanthropy,  and  Reform 
arc  here  discussed  by  clear,  sound,  and  experienced 
minds.  Pulpit  orators,  of  renown  aud  recognized  po- 
sition, have  coutributed  to  this  volume  their  best  jiro- 
ductions. 

It  is,  in  short,  a  library  of  Christian  thought  and 
learning— the  latest  exprecsion  of  master-minds  upon 
the  important  topics  that  are  now  moving  the  Chris- 
tian world— and  should  be  read  by  all  who  would  be 
educated  in  the  thought  of  the  age. 


Bulwer's  The  Parisians. 

The  Parisians.  A  Novel.  By  Edward  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton,  Author  of  "  The  Coming 
Race,"  "  Kenelm  Chillingly,"  "  A  Strange  Story,"  "  The  Caxtons,"  "  My  Novel,"  &c.,  &c. 
With  Illustrations  by  Sydney  Hall.     i2ino.  Cloth,  jfi  50;  8vo,  Paper,  gi  00. 


Few  tbinirs  in  literature  are  finer  than  the  description 
of  the  social  condilicm  of  France  which  made  her  so 
easy  a  prey,  in  si)ite  of  the  bravery  and  the  pride  of 
her  people.— /io«^)n  Satnrdaii  thvuing  (iazi-tte. 

At  every  step  we  feel  the  charm  of  the  author's  style, 
of  his  incisive  wit,  of  his  keen,  clear  observation.  The 
volume  al)()unds  in  brilliant  sayiiit;s,  as  well  as  pro- 
found ones.  There  are  chapters  and  books  in  "The 
Parisians"  on  which  the  reader  dwells  with  special 
plca-^ure,  and  to  which  every  one  will  turn  bark  with 
delight  for  n  repcrusal ;  but  there  is  none  which  be 
will  feel  inclined  to  skii)  in  the  hurry  to  get  on  with 
the  »U>ry.  —  lli)ston  Jmirniil. 

The  a.ithor  has  set  before  hiinselfthe  task  of  paint- 
ing French  society  in  Paris  in  the  last  days  of  tbe  Sec- 
ond Empire,  and  he  has  accomplished  this  task,  for- 


eigner as  he  was,  with  a  skill  which  a  horn  Frenchman 
might  well  envy.  As  an  historical  fiction,  "The  Paris 
iaiis"  stands  liiglier  than  "Hieii/.i"or  the  "Last  Days 
of  Pompeii."  It  is  a  satire  in  the  sense  that  it  remorse- 
lessly depicts  the  follies  and  crimes  of  the  imperialist 
regime,  and  is  a  far  abler  satire  than  the  "New  Ti- 
moti."  Ills  more  brilliant  in  iL-*  epigrammatic  wit  ttian 
"  Pelhain,"  and  smoother  in  the  flow  of  its  narrative 
than  "  Ken-lm  Chillingly."  *  *  •  It  will  always  l)e  treat- 
ed by  stiid'nts  of  literature  .vith  the  respect  due  to  a 
brilliant  aiul  excei)tional)ly  able  novel. -H'ord/,  N.  Y. 
'  •  *  Tlio  reader  who  takes  it  up  will  not  willingly 
lay  it  down  until  the  last  page  is  reached,  and  he  will 
rise  from  its  perusal  with  the  conviction  that  it  is  a 
work  worthy  of  a  place  by  the  side  of  "The  Cox- 
tons  "and  "My  Novel."— i'Douinj; /»(«(,  N.  Y. 


ThroHfih  Fire  and  Water. 


Through  Fire  and  Water.    A  Tale  of  City  Life.     By  Frederick  Talbot.    Illustrated. 
8vo,  Paper,  25  cents. 
This  is  a  short  but  exciting  narrative  of  London  I  startling  iucldent  and  pathetic  denoaement.— A*.  K. 
life,  embradng  withlu  Its  uat-jw  liuiits  much  of  1  World. 


Novel*  are  sweets.  All  people  with  healtlij'  literary  appetites  love  Ihom— almost  all  women;  a 
vast  number  of  clever,  liaid-lieadtd  men.  Jiidt;es,  bishops,  cliancellors,  matliematicians,  are  notorious 
novel  readers,  as  well  as  young  boys  and  sweet  girls,  and  tlieir  kind,  tender  niotlicrs.— Thackekav. 

Harper's  Select  LUirary  of  Fict'on  rarely  includes  a  work  whicii  has  not  a  decided  cliann,  either 
from  the  clearness  of  the  story,  the  slKnilicaiice  of  the  theme,  or  tiie  cliarin  of  the  execution  ;  so  that  on 
setting;  out  upon  a  journey,  or  providing;  for  the  recreition  of  a  solitary  evening,  one  is  wise  and  safe  in 
procuruig  the  later  numbers  of  this  attractive  series. — ISustm  Transa-ipt. 


A  COMPLETE  LIST  OF  NOVELS 

PUBLISHED   BY  

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


For  full  titles  and  description,  see  Harper's  Catalogue,  which  tcill  be  sent  by  mail 

on  receipt  of  ten  cents. 

The  Novels  in  this  List,  except  where  otherwise  designated,  are  in  Octavo,  pamphlet  form.    The 
Diwdecimo  Novels  are  bound  in  Cloth,  unless  otherwise  specijied. 


pnioR 

AGUTLAR'S  Horn?  Tnfliionce 12mofl  00 

The  Moth' r's  IJeconipenso 75 

AINSWOUTH'S  Crichton 12mo  1  50 

ALAM.\N'CK 50 

ANDKKSKN'S  (Hans  Christian)  The  Inipro- 

visiitore 50 

Only  a  Fiddler  and  O.T 60 

ANNK  Furnesa 75 

UACMKLOU  of  th'.  Albany linio  1  50 

BAKI'Mt'S  'I'lic  Now  Timothy l-Jino  1  50 

Inside:  a  Chronicle  of  Secession.     Illus- 
trated    1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

BANIM'S  The  Smuggler 12mo  1  50 

bfma:- 50 

BFLI/S  (     I  ,.<)  Julia  Howard 50 

BKN'FATH  the  Wlicls 50 

BENEDICT'S  .lohn  Worthiiigton's  Name...  1  00 

CIcth  1  50 

Miss  Dorothy's  Charge 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Miss  Van  Kortland 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

My  Daughter  Elinor 1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

BLACKS  Kilmeny fjO 

A  D.un^hter  of  Heth 50 

In  Silk  Afire 50 

Liivo  or  Marriage  ? 5o 

The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane.     Ill's.       50 
1'lie  Strange  Adventures  of  a  I'h.ieton.       75 

A  I'rinc'ss  of  Thnle 75 

BLACK MOHI.'S  Cradock  Nowell 75 

'I  h  •  Maid  of  Sker 75 

Alice  I.orr.iine.     (/« /V ■.»■(.) 
BLACKWI.I.I/S   (Mr^.  A.  B.)   The    Island 

Neighbors.     Illustrated 75 

BUTE  l!il.b..n,  The go 

BOHKOWS  Lavcngro 75 

Itomany  Kye 76 


BRADDON'S  (Miss)  Aurora  Floyd $     75 

A  Strange  World.     (/»  1'ie.i--.) 

Birds  of  I'rcy.     Illustrated 75 

Bound  to  John  Company.     Illustrated.  75 

Cliarlotte's   Inheritance 50 

Dead  Sea  Fruit.     Illustrations 50 

Eleanor's  Victory 75 

Fenton's  Quest.      Illustrated 50 

John  Marchmont's  Legacy 75 

Los'  for  Love.     Illustrat-jd.    (fn  /'/•<■««.) 

Publicans  and  Sinners 75 

Strangers   and  Pilgrims.      Illustrated.  75 

Taken  at  the  Flood 75 

The  Lovels  of  Ardin.      Illustrated 75 

To  the  Bitter  End.    Illustrated 75 

BREACH  of  Promi.se 60 

BREMEK'S  (Miss)  Urothors  and  Si-ters 50 

New  Sketches  of  Every-Day  Life 50 

Nina 60 

The  H.  Family 50 

The  Home. . ." 60 

The  Midniglit  Sun 25 

The  N<ighbors 50 

The  Parsonaixe  of  Mora 25 

The  President's  Daughters 25 

BRONTE'S  (Charlotte)  Jane  Eyre 76 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  50 

Shirley 1  00 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  50 

Villett" 75 

Illnstratcd.     12nio  1  50 

The  Professor.      Illustrated 12ino  1  50 

(Anna)  The   Tenant  of   WiMfrll   Hall. 

lllustrateil.     ll'mo  1  50 
(Emily) Wuthoring Heights.  Illustrated. 

l-.'mo  1  .50 

BROOKS'S  Sooner  or  I^fer.    Illustrated  ...  1  50 

Chith  2  00 

The  Onrdian  Knot ,50 

The  Silver  Cord.     Illustrated 150 

Cloth  2  00 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  &•  Brothers. 


rBIGB 

BROUGHAM'S  Albert  Luncl $    75 

BUUNTON'S  (Mary)  Self-Control 75 

UULWliU'S  Alice 60 

A  Strange  Story.     Illustrated 1  00 

12nio  1  23 

Devereux 50 

Ernest  Maltravers 50 

Eugene  Arum 50 

Godolphin 50 

50 
00 
75 
th 
50 
CO 
75 
50 


12mo 

Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings 1 

Kenelin  Chillingly 

12nio  1 

Leila 

12mo  1 

Lucretia 

My  Novel 1 

2  vols.  12ino  2  50 

Night  and  Morning 75 

Paul  Clifford 

Pelham 

Kicnzi 

The  Caxtons 

12ino  1 

The  Disowned 

Tile  Last  D.iy s  of  P(]inpt'ii 

The  Last  of  the  Barons 1 

The  Pilfirims  of  llie  Rhine 

The  Parisians.     Illustrated 1 

12mo  1 

Wliatwill  lie  do  with  it? 1 

Cloth  2 

Zanoni 

BULWER'S    (Robert  — "Owen   Meredith") 

Till'  Ring  of  Aniasis 12iiio  1 

BURBURV'S  (Mrs.)  Florence  SacUville 

BURNEYS  (Miss)  Evelina 12ino  1 

CAMPBELL'S  (.Miss)  SelCDevotion 50 

CAPRON'S  (Miss)  Helen  Lincoln 12mo  1  50 

CARLEN'S  (Miss)  Ivar;  or,  The  Skjuts-Boy.      50 

The  Brothers'  Bet 25 

The  Lover's  Stratngcm 60 

CASTE.    By  tlie  Author  of  " Colonel  Dacre." 

CHARLES  Auchester 

CHURCH'S  (Mrs.  Ross)  Her  Lord  and  Mas- 
ter  

The  Prey  of  the  Cot's 

CITIZEN  of' Prague 

CLARKE'S  The  Bcanclerc-i,  Father  and  Son. 
COLLINS'S(M.irtinier)The  Vivian  Romance. 
COLLINS'S  (Wilkie)  Armadale.  Illustrated. 

Antoiiiua 

Man  and  Wife.     Illustrated 

No  Name.     Illustrated 

Poor  Miss  F'iiich.    Illustrated 

The  Moonstone.     Illustrated 

The  New  Maydal  n 

The  Woman  in  White.     Illustrated. . . . 

COLLINS'S    (Wilkie)    Illustrated   Library 

Edition 12mo,  per  vol. 


50 
75 
75 
75 
25 
75 
50 
00 
25 
00 
50 
50 
00 
50 

50 
75 
00 


COLONEL  Ducre.  By  the  Author  of  '•  Caste.'"*    50 

CONSTANCE  Lyndsay 60 

COOKE'S  Henry  St.  .lohn 12mio   1 

Leather  Stacking  ami  Silk 12ni<)  1 


50 
50 
00 


COl.'NWALLIS'S  Pilgrims  of  Fashion. 12mo 
CRAIK'S  (Mrs.  D.  M.).     .SVe  Miss  MulocL 

(Mis-  G.  M.)  Mildred 50 

CUNNINGHAMS  Lord  Ri.ldan 1  50 

CURTIS'S  Trumps.     Illustrated 12mo  2  00 

D'ARBOUVILLE'S  Tales ]2mo  1  50 

U'lSRAELl'S  The  Young  Dnke l.'mo  1  50 


Antonina. 
Aniindale. 
Basil. 

Hide-and-Srok. 
Man  and  Wife. 
No  Name. 
After   Dark,   and 
Other  Stories. 


Poor  Miss  Finch. 
The  Drad  Secret. 
The  Moonstfine. 
The  New  Magdalen. 
The  Woman  in  White. 
My  Misc  llanles. 
Queen  of  Hearts. 


50 
60 
50 

50 
75 
25 
00 


1 
1 

1  50 


The  Dodge  Club.    Illustrated. 


D'ORSAY'S  (Countess)  Ch.uikd  Ilappinoss. 

DANGEROUS  Guest,  A 

DE  BKAUVOIR'S  Safia 

DE  FOREST'S  Miss  Ravenel's  Conversion 

from  Scces>ion  to  Loyalty. . .  .12mo 

DE  MILLE'S  Cord  and  Creese,     illustrated. 

Cloth 

The  American  Daron.     Illustrated 

Cloth 

The  Crvptogram.    Illustrated 1  50 

Cloth    2  00 

76 

Cloth   1  25 
The  Living  Link.  Illustrated.  {In  Press.) 

DE  VKiXV'S  Cinq  .Mars 50 

DENISON'S  (Mrs.)  Home  Pictures.... l-.'nio  1  60 
DICKENS'S  Novels.     Illustrated. 

Oliver  Twist 50 

Cloth  1  00 

Martin  ChuzzlevN'it 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

The  Old  Curiosity  Shop 75 

Cloth  1  25 

David  Copperfield 1  00 

Cloth   I  bO 

Dombey  and  Son 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Nicholas  Niukleby 1  00 

50 
00 
50 


Cloth 


Bleak  House. 


Cloth 


Pickwick  Papers 1  00 


Cloth 


Little  Dorrit 

Baruaby  Rudge 

Our  Mutual  Friend. 


Cloth 
Cloth 


50 
00 
50 
00 
50 


(M  Pnss.) 


1  50 


A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.    {In  Press.) 

Great  E.\pectations.    (/»»  Press.') 

Christmas  Stories,    (/n  Press.) 

Bleak  House.    Illustrated.  .2  vols.,  12mo  3  00 

Hard  1  imes 50 

12mo  1  26 

Mrs.  Lirriper's  Legacy 10 

The  M  vstery  of  Edwin  Drood.    Ill's 25 

DRA  YTt  )N 12tnv)  1  !>0 

DRIRY'S  (Miss  A.  H.)  Eastbury 12ino  1  5" 

Misrepresentation 1  00 

DUMAS  S  (Alex.)  Amaury 50 

Ascaiiio 75 

Chevalier  d'llarniental 60 

DUPUY'S  (Miss  F.  A.)  Country  Neighbor- 
hood  " 50 

The  Huguenot  Exiles 12nio  1  26 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  dv  Brothers. 


EDGEWORTirS  (Mi,«s)  Novcln.     EnKrav- 

iiigs 10  vols.,  12mo,  per  vol.$l  50 

Vol.  I.  Castle  Kackrrnt;  Kssay  on 
Irish  Bulls;  Essaj'onSelWustilication; 
Thi-  Prus.sian  Vase ;  Tlie  Good  .■Vunt. 
Vol.  II.  Angelina;  The  Good 
French  Governes.s ;  Mademoiselle 
Panache;  The  Knapsack;  Lame  Jcr- 
vis;  The  Will;  Out  of  Debt,  Out  of 
IJaiiger;  Tlie  Limerick  Gloves;  The 
Lottcrj' ;  Rosanna. 

Vol.  Ill  JInrad  the  Unlucky;  The 
Manuf.icturiTs ;  Ennui;  The  Con- 
trast; The  Grateful  Negro;  To-mor- 
row ;  The  Dun. 

Vol.  IV.  Manoeuvring;  Almeria; 
Vivian. 

Vol.  V.  The  Absentee ;  Sfadame  de 
Fleury;    Emily  de   IJoulaui^es;    Tho 
Modern  Griselda. 
Vol.  VI.  Ifelinda. 

Vol.  VII.  Leonora;  Letters  on  Fe- 
male Education;  Patronage. 

Vol.  V 11 1.  Patronage ;  Comic  Dramas. 
Vol.  IX.  Harrington;  Thoughts  on 
Bor^^a ;  (Jimond. 
Vol.  X.  Helen. 

Frank 2  vols.  18mo  1  50 

Harry  and  Lucy 2  vols.  18mo  3  00 

Moral  Tales 2  vols.  18mo  1  .'lO 

Popular  Tales 2  vols.  18mo  1  50 

Rosamond 12mo  1  50 

EDWARDS'S  (Amelia  B.)  Barbara's  History.       75 

Delienham'a  Vow.     Illustrated 75 

Half  a  Million  of  Money 75 

Hand  and  (ilovo 50 

Miss  Carew 50 

My  Brother's  Wife 50 

The  Ladder  of  Life 50 

(M.  B.)  Kitty 50 

EILO.AR  I  "S  (Mrs.)  Curate's  Discipline 50 

From  Thistles— Grapes  ? 50 

ELIOT'S  (George)  Novels. 

Adam  Bede.     Illustrated 12mo  1  00 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical 75 

Illustrated.    12mo  1  00 

Middlemarch 1  50 

Cloth  2  00 
2  vols.  12mo  3  50 

Romola.    Illustrated 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  and  Silas  Marner. 

Illustrated.     l-2mo  1  00 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss 75 

Illustrated.    12mo  1  00 

ELLIS'S  (Mrs.)  Homo 12mo  1  50 

Look  to  the  End 50 

Chapters  on  Wives 12mo  1  50 

ESTELLE  Rus.sell 75 

FALKENBURG 75 

FARJEON'S  Blade-o'-Grass.      Illustrations.      35 
Bread-and-Cheese  and  Kisses.     Ill's....       35 

Golden  Grain.     Illustrated 35 

Grif 40 

Cloth      90 

Joshua  Marvel 40 

Cloth      90 

London's  Heart.     Illustrated 1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
FEMALE  Minister,  The 60 


rBIOR 

FENN'S  Ship  Ahoy  I     Illustrated $    40 

The  Treasure  Hunters.     (/»  J'itss.) 

FERRI ER'S  (Mi.ss)  Marriage 60 

FIELDING'S  Amelia l'2mo  1  50 

Tom  Jones 2  vols,  l"2mo  2  75 

FIRS  r  Fric  ndship,  A 50 

FIVE  Hundred  Pounds  Reward 50 

FLAGG'S  A  Good  Investment.     lUustiatcd.      50 

FRANCILLON'S  The  Earls  Dene 

FREYTAG'S  Debit  and  Credit 12mo 

FULLOM'S  Daughter  of  Night 

GARIBALDI'S  Rule  of  the  Monk 

GASKELL'S  (Mrs.)  Cranford 12mo 


50 
60 
50 
50 
26 

Dark  Night's  Work,  A 60 

50 
75 


Mary  Barton. 

Moorland  Cottage ISnio 

My  l^dy  Ludlow 25 

North  and  South. 


..  60 

Right  at  Last,  &c r2mo  1  50 

Svlvia's  Lovers 76 

Cousin  Phillis 25 

Wives  and  Daughters.     Illustrations. . .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

GIBBON'S  For  Lack  of  Gold 50 

For  the  King 50 

Robin  Grav 50 

GILBERT  Rugge 1  00 

GODDARDS  (Julia)  Baffled 75 

GODWIN'S  Caleb  Williams IGmo,  Paper  37 

Cloth  1  00 
GOLDSMITH'S  Vicar  of  Wakefield. .  .ISmo, 

Cloth  76 

GOLD  Worshipers 50 

. .  50 

..  50 

..  25 

..  50 

..  50 

..  50 


GORE'S  (Mrs.)  Peers  and  Parvenus. 

The  Baiiki'r's  Wife 

The  Birthri-ht 

The  Queen  of  Denmark 

Tho  Roval  Favorite  

GRATTAN'S  Chance  Light  Medlev 

GREEN  Hand,  The 76 

GREENWOOD'S  True  History  of  a  Little 

Ragamuffin 50 

GREY'S  (Mrs.)  The  Bosom  Friend 60 

The  Gambler's  Wife 60 

The  Y'oung  Husband 50 

GWYNN'E'S  The  School  for  Fathers. .  .12mo  1  25 

IHAKLANDER'S  Clara 12ino  1  50 

HALLS  (Mrs.  S.  C.)  Midsummer  Eve 60 

Tales  of  Woman's  Trials 75 

The  Whitebov 60 

HAMILTON'S  (.'vril  'Ihornton 12mo  1  50 

HAM  LEY'S  Ladv  Loes  Widowhood 60 

HANN AY'S  (D.)  Ned  Allen 50 

(J.)  Singleton  Fcmtenov 50 

HARDY'S  (l.adv)  Daisy  Nichol 50 

HEIR  Expectant,  Tho 60 

HIDDEN  Sin, Tho 1  00 

Cloth  1  60 

HOEY'S  (Mrs.)  A  Golden  Sorrow 50 

HOFLAND'S  (Mrs.)  Daniel  Dennison 60 

The  Czarina   60 

The  Unloved  One 60 

HOPE'S  .Anastasius ]2mi\  1  50 

HOWITI'S  (Mary)  The  Author's  Daughter.  26 

Wlio  Sliall  be  ( Jrcatost  ? 18mo,  ( "loth  76 

The  Heir  of  Wast  Wavland 12mo  1  50 

(Wm.)  Jack  of  the  Mi'U 26 

HUBB ACK'S  Wife's  Sister 5« 

HUGO'S  Ninety-Three '26 

12mo  1  76 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  Cf  Brothers. 


l-ItlOK 

HUGO'S  The  Toilers  of  tho  Sea.    Illu8tratod.$    75 

Cloth  1  50 
HUNCiEUKORD'S  The  Old  Plantation. 121110.  1  50 

HUNT'S  The  Foster  IJrotlier 60 

INCIIBALD'S  (Mrs.)  A  Simple  Story 60  ' 

IN  Duty  Bound.     Illustrated 50 

ISAHEl" ISnio,  Cloth      75 

JAMES'S  Leonora  d'Orco 60 

The  <  )ld  Uoniinion 50 

Ticoiiderofia 50 

A  Life  of  Vicissitudes 50  [ 

Afines  Soicl 50 

Pequiuiilo 50 

Aims  and  Obstacles 50 

The  Eate 50 

The  Coniiiiissioiier 100 

llcnrv  Snicaton 50 

The  Old  Oak  C'.iest 50 

The  Woodniuii 75  > 

The  !•  ornery 50 

Thirty  Years  Since 75  | 

A  Whim  and  its  Consequences 50 

(Jowrie ;  or,  The  Kind's  Dot 60 

Sir  Theodore  Hrou^iiiton 60 

The  I.a.st  of  the  Eairiis 25 

The  Convict 50 

Margaret  Graliam 25 

Russell 50 

The  t,'astle  of  Ehrenstein 50 

Beauchanip 75 

Heidellicrg 50 

The  Step-Mother 1  26 

The  SmuKKler 75 

Agincourt 60 

Arrih  Neil 60 

Kose  d'AU.ret 50 

Aral).  Ua  Stuart 50 

The  False  Heir 50 

FoieKt  Davs 50 

The  Club  Book 12mo  1  50 

Do  L'Ornie 12mo  1  50 

The  (ii  ntlenian  of  the  Old  School . .  12mo  1  50 

The  Gipsy 12nio  1  50 

Henry  of  Guise 12ino  1  50 

Henry  Musteiton 12mo  1  50 

The  ,Iac(iueric 12mo  1  60 

Morley  Enistein 12ino  1  50 

One  ill  a  Thousand ]2mo  1  50 

I'hilip  Augustus Vlmo  1  60 

Attihi limo  1  50 

Corse  de  Linn 1 2mo  1  50 

Tlie  Ancient  Hdginie 12mo  1  50 

The  Man  at  Arms 12mo  1  60 

Chirles  Tyrrel 12mo  1  60 

The  Hobber .12mo  1  50 

Richilieu 12mo  1  50 

The  Huguenot 12ino  1  50 

The  King's  Ilitiliway 12nio  1  60 

The  String  of  I'earls 12mo  1  25 

Marv  of  Burgundy 12iiio  1  .')0 

Dariiley 12mo  1  .'iO 

John  Marston  Hall 12mo  1  50 

The  Desnhoiy  Man ]2mo  1  .W 

JEAFFRESON'S  leabel 12mo  1  60 

Live  it  Down 1  00 

Lottie  Darling '5 

Not  Dead  Yet 1  25 

Clotii  1  75 

Olive  Blake's  Good  Work 76 

JEANIE'S  Quiet  Life 60 


1 


PEIOB 

1^  60 
26 
00 
50 
60 
60 
60 
50 
50 
50 


JESSIE'S  Flirtations 

JEKROLD'.S  Chronicles  of  Clovrrnook 

JEWSBLRY'S  (Miss)  Adopted  Child. .  ICmo 

Constance  Herbert 

Zoe 

JILT,  The 

JOSEPH  the  Jew 

KATHLEEN 

KINGSLEY'S  (Chas.)  Alton  Locke  . . .  .12nio 

Y'east 12mo 

(Henry)  Hetty 25 

Strciton 40 

KNORRING'S  The  Pe.isant  and  his  Landlord. 

12mo  1  50 

KNOWLES'S  Fortcscue 1  00 

LAJETCHNIKOFF'S  The  Heretic 60 

LAMA  RTI NES   Genevieve ....  12ino,  Paper      25 

Rapliael 12ino  1  26 

Stone  Mason  of  St.  Point 12ino  1  26 

'LAW K EN(  'F:'S  (^Gco.  A.)  Anteros 50 

Biakespeare 50 

Breaking  a  Butterfly ;!6 

Guy  Livin^istone 12nio  1  50 

Hagarene.     {/n  J'ress.) 

Maurice  Dcring 60 

Sans  M  erci 60 

Sword  and  (iown 25 

LEE'S  (Holnio)  Aiiuis  Warleigh's  Fortunes.       76 

Katliic  Brande 12mo  1  60 

Mr.  W'ynyard's  Ward 50 


.12mo  1 


Svlvan  Holt's  Danghte 
LE  FANU'S  All  in  tlie  Dark 

A  Lost  Name 

Guy  Deverell 

The  T«  nants  of  Malory 

Uncle  Silas 

LE  SAGE'S  Gil  Bias 12mo 

LEVER'S  A  Day's  Ride 

Brainleighs  of  Bisliop's  Folly 50 

Barringlon 76 


50 
50 
50 
50 
60 
76 
50 
60 


Dal  tons 

Dodd  family  Abroad 1 

Gerald  f  itzgcmld 

Glencore  and  liis  Fortunes 

Lord  Kilgobbin.     Illustrated 1 

Cloth  1 
Luttrell  of  Arran 1 

Cloth  1 

Martins  of  Cro'  Martin 1 

Maurice  Tiernay 1 

One  of  '1  hem 

Roland  Cashel.     F'ngravings 1 

Sir  Brook  Fosbrooke 


60 
25 
60 
50 
00 
60 
00 
50 
25 
00 
75 
25 
50 

Sir  Jasprr  Curcw 75 

"'  "  25 

00 
60 
75 
25 


Illustrated. 


That  Boy  of  Norcott's, 

Tony  Biitler 

Cloth 
LEWES'S  Three  Sisters  andTlirce  Fortunes. 

LILY l-'mo 

LINTON'S  (Mrs.)  Lizzie  Lorton  of  Greyrigg. 

Sow  ing  the  Wind 

LIVON! AN  T.iles 

LOCK II. ART'S   Fair  to  Sec 75 

MCCARTHY'S  My  Enemy's  Daughter.  Hi's.       75 

The  Wati-rdale  N(ighl)ors 511 

McINTOSH'S    (Miss)    Conquest    and    .Self- 
Conquest 18nio,  Cloth 

The  Cousins ISnio,  Clutii 

Praise  and  Principle IHino,  Cbilh 

Woman  »n  Enigma 18nio,  Cloth 


50 
25 


75 


76 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  &f  Brothers, 


MADKi;S  Progress $ 

MAUKi:i-Y'S  (,.Mr.^.)  Udy  and  the  Priest.. 

l.eoiitinc 

MACnoNALirS  Alec  F..rl).s 

Aiiiiiils  of  a  (iiiiet  Neigliliorliood  .  .l-'mo 

(iiiild  (^ourt 

MACKKMZIK'S  (Henry)  Novels 12iiio 

MACQIJDIU'S  (Mrs.)  Patty 

Too  Soon  

MAID  of  Honor,  The 

MAID  of  Orleans,  Tlio 

MAKtJAKKT  nrnziPs   History 

MAU(  JAKET'S  Ivinayenient 

MAULITT'S   Countess  (}iscla 

MAUKYAT'S  (Capt.)  Children  of  New  For- 
est   rimo 

Japhot  in  S-arcli  of  a  Father lUiiio 

Litilo  Savage l".inio 

MAR.Sirs  (Mrs.)  Adelaide  Lindsay 

Angela I'Jmo 

Anbrcy 

Custl-  .Vvon 

Emilia  Wviidhiin 

Evelyn  .Marston 

Fatlior  I  (arcy 

Heiress  of  Huughton 

Lettice  Arnold 

]Mord:uint  Hall 

Norman's  Bridge 

Kavensclltte 

Kose  of  Asliurst 

Timo,  the  Avenger 

rriiunp'is  of  Time 

WilMiiiiijfons 

MARTINEACS  (Hariiet)  The  Hour  and  the 

Man 

MATl'RIN".S   Uianca 12mo 

.M  EI  N  HOLD'S  Sidonia  the  Sorceress 

M LLVILLE'S  Mardi 2  vols.  ISmo 

Moliy-Diek I'imo 

Onioo 12nio 

Pierre 12nio 

Rcdbiirn 12uio 

Tvpcn 1 2mo 

WhitejacUot 12ino 

MEREDITH'S  Evan  l^arrington 12mo 

MKTA'S  Faith 

MI  LMAN'S  Arthur  Conway 

The  Waysido  (Iross 

MORE'S  (li"annah)  Complete  Works.      En- 

gravings 1  vol.  8vo,  Sheep 

2  vols.  8vo,  Cloth 
Sheep 

The  Same 7  vols.  1 2mo 

MOTHKRS  Trials,  A 12mo 

MOCI.TON'S  My  Third  Book 12nio 

MUIILHACH'S  nernth.<»l 

MULOCK'S  (.Miss)  My  Mother  and  I.      IJ. 
lustrated 12mo 

A  Bravo  Lidy.      Illustrated 

Cloth 
12mo 

The  Woman's  Kingdom.     Illustrated... 

Cloth 
12mo 

A  Hero,  &c 12mo 

A  Life  for  a  Life 

12mo 


•RICK 

60 

50 

50 

75 

1  75 

60 

1  60 

50 

50 

50 

75 

75 

51) 

25 

1  25 

1  25 

1  25 

50 

1  50 

75 

60 

75 

50 

75 

50 

25 

50 

50 

50 

50 

50 

75 

50 

50 

1  25 

1  00 

;5  00 

1  75 

1  50 

1  60 

1  60 

1  50 

1  50 

1  50 

50 

60 

25 

3  00 

4  00 

5  00 

H  75 

1  25 

1  25 

50 

-  50 

1  50 

1  00 

1  50 

1  50 

1  00 

1  60 

1  60 

1  25 

60 

1  50 

PBK'N 

MULOCK'S  (Miss)  Agatha's  Husband (s     60 

r.'mo  1  60 

Avillion,  and  Other  Tales 1  26 

Christian's  .Mistake I2nio  1  50 

A  Noble  Life 12nio  1  60 

Hannah,     Illustrated 50 

12nio  1  50 

Head  of  the  Family 76 

IJmo  1  50 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman 76 

Illustrated.     12mo  1  60 

Mistress   and  Maid 60 

12  mo  1  50 

Nothing  New 60 

Ogilvies 60 

12nio  1  60 

Olive 60 

12mo  1  50 
A  French  Country  Famil_v.    Traiislited, 

Illustrations Ijnio  1  50 

Motherless.     Tninslated.     Ill's 12ino  1  50 

Unkind  Word  and  Other  Stories. ..]2mo  1  60 

Two  Marriages 12mo  1  60 

MURRAY'S  The  Prairie  Bird 1  00 

MY  Ilnsband's  Crime.     Illustrated 75 

MY  Uncle  the  Curate 50 

NABOB  at  Home.  The 60 

NATURE'S  Nobleman 50 

NEALU'S  The  Lost  Ship 76 

NICHOLS'S  The  Sanctuarj'.     Ill's I2mo  1  50 

Nt)R.\  and  Archibald  Leo 60 

NORTON'S  Smart  of  Dunleath 50 

OLIPIIANT'S  (Mrs.)  Agnes 75 

A  th. 'lings. 75 

ISrownlows 'Xi 

Chronicles  of  Carlingibrd 1  26 

Cloth  1  75 

Days  of  My  Life 12mo  1  5(» 

For  Love  and  Life '.'.-. 

Innocent.      Illustraied 75 

John:    a  Love  Story 60 

Katie  Stewart 25 

The  House  on  the  Moor 12mo  1  5i) 

The  Laird  of  Norlaw 12mo  5  6(i 

Tho  Last  of  the  Mortimers li'mo  1  60 

Lucy  CroHon 12mo  1  60 

Madonna  Mary 60 

Miss  Majoiilianks 60 

Ombra 75 

The  Perpetual  Curate 1  00 

Cloth  1  60 

Quiet  Heart 25 

Son  of  the  Soil 1  00 

Cloth  1  60 

Tho  Minister's  Wife 75 

PAYN'S  (.las.)  At  Ikr  Mercy 60 

A  Woman's  Venj^eanee 60 

Best  of  Husbands,    (/n  Pnss.) 

Beggar  on  Horseback 35 


Bred  in  tlie  Bone 60 

Carlvon's  Year 25 

C(  cihs  Tryst 60 

Found  Dead 50 

(iwendoline's   Harvest 25 

Murphy's  Ma-ter 25 

One  of  tlie  Family 25 

Won— Not  Wooed 60 

PICKERINGS  (Miss)  The  Grandfather 50 

Tho  (Jrumldcr 60 

POINT  of  Honor,  A 60 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  &'  Brothers. 


Griffith  Oaiint.  Illustrations... 
It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  .Mend... 
Lovo  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Loii^. 


PBICK 

POLLARD'S  fElizii  F.)  Hope  Deferred $     50 

PONSONHY'S  (La.ly)  Discipline  of  Life. ...  60 

Miiry  Lindsay 50 

Pride  mid  Irresolution 60 

PROFKS.SOR'S  Lady 25 

RACHEL'S  Secret 75 

RAYMOND'S  Heroine 50 

KKADE'S  (Charles)  Hard  Cash.    His 50 

Cloth  1  00 

A  Simpleton 50 

Cloth  1  00 

25 

50 

60 

l-.'mo  1  00 

Foul  Plav 25 

White  Lies 50 

Pof;  Woflin^ton  and  Other  Tales 50 

Put  Yourself  in  lli.s  Place.  Illustrations.  75 

Cloih  1  25 

l-2nio  1  00 

A  Terrihlo  Temptation.     Illustrated....  50 

12nio  75 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth 60 

The  Wandering;  Heir.     Illustrations....  25 

(loth  60 

RECOLLECTIONS  of  Eton.     Illustrated....  50 

REGENT'S  Daughter 60 

RIDDELL'S  (Mrs.  J.  11.)  Maxwell  Drewitt.  75 

Phemie  Keller 60 

Race  for  Wealth 75 

A  Life'.i  Assize 50 

PvOBINSON'S(F.W.)  For  Her  Sake.     Ill's.  75 

A  Bridi;e  of  Glass 50 

Carry's  Confession 75 

Christie's  Faith iL'mo  1  75 

Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune 60 

Little  Kate  Kirby.     Illustrations 75 

Maitie:    a  Stray 75 

No  Man's  Friend 75 

Poor   Hinnanity 60 

Second-CoMsin  Sarah.     Illustrations 75 

Stern  Necessity 50 

True   to  Herself 50 

A  Girl's  Romance,  and  Other  Stories....  50 

ROMANCE  and  its  Hero,  The r2mo  1  25 

ROWCROFT'S  The  Bnsh  Ran;j;er 60 

SACRISTAN'S  Household,  The.  Illustrated.  75 

SALA'S  Quite  Alone 75 

SAUNDERS'S  Abel  Drake's  Wife 75 

Bound  to  the  Wheel 75 

Hirell 50 

Martin  Pole 50 

SEDGWICK'S(Miss)HopeLeslie.2vols.i:mo  .T  00 

The  Linwoods 2  vols.  12ino  3  00  | 

Live  and  Let  Live 18mo,  Cloth      75  | 

Married  or  Sinf;le  ? 2  vols.  12nio  3  00  j 

Means  and  Ends 18mo,  Cloth      75; 

Poor  Rich  Man  and  Rich  Poor  Man....  ! 

18nio,  Clotii       75 
Stories  for  Young  Persons...  18nio,  Cloth      75 

Talcs  of  GlauLer  Spa 12mo  1  50  ! 

Wilton  Harvev  and  Other  Talcs. ..18nio, 

Cloth       75 

SEDGWICK'S  (Mrs.)  Walter  Thornlcy.l2mo  1  50 

SELF 75 

SEWELL'S  (Miss)  Amy  Herbert 50 


raioB 
SHERWOOD'S  (Mrs.)  Henry  Jlilner.2  vols. 

12nio.$3  00 

Lady  of  the  Manor 4  vols.  12niii  G  00 

Roxobel 3  vol.-".  18mo, Cloth  2  25 

Fairchild  Fanuly 12ino  1  60 

Jiihu  Marten 12ino  1  50 

SHERWOOD'S  (Mrs.)  Works.    En;,'r  iviiiKs. 

1(!  Vols.,  ]2nio,  (Hntli,  i)er  vol.  1  50 
The  Volumes  .sold  siparatily  or  in  sets. 
Vol.  I.  The  History  of  Henry  Mil- 
ner,  Parts  1.,  II.,  and  HI. 

Vol.  II.  Fairchild  Family  ;  Orphans 
of  Normandy  ;  Tlie  Latter  Day.*,  &c. 

Vol.  III.  Little  Henry  and  his  Bear- 
er; Lucy  and  her  Dhaye;  Memuirs 
of  Sergeant  Dale,  his  DaULihter,  and 
the  Orphan  Mary;  Sii.«an  Gray;  Lucy 
Clare;  1  licophilus  and  Sopliia;  Abdal- 
lah.  the  Merchant  of  Ba-dad. 

Vol.  IV.  The  Indian  Pil-rim  ;  Tlio 
Broken  Hyacinth;  the  Babes  in  the 
Wood  of  the  New  World ;  Catlieiine 
Seward;  The  Little  ISegj^'ars,  &,c. 

Vol.  V.  The  Infant's  Pro},'rcss;  The 
Flowers  of  I  ho  Forest;  Ermina,  &c. 

Vol.  VI.  Tlio  Governess;  'i'he  Lit- 
tle Momiere;  The  Stran};er  at  Home; 
Pero  la  Cli;dse ;  English  Mary;  My 
Uncle  Tiniotliy. 

Vol.VIl.The'Nnn;  Intimate  Friends; 
My  Aunt  Kate;  Emeline;  Obedience; 
The  Gipsv  Babes;  The  Basket-maker ; 
The  Butterfly,  &c. 

Vol.  VIII.  Virtoria;  Arzooniund  ; 
The  Birth-Day  Present ;  Tlie  Errand 
Boy;  The  Orphan  Boy;  The;  Two  Sis- 
ters; Julian  Percival ;  Edward  Mans- 
field; 'I'lie  Infirmary;  Tlio  Young  For- 
ester; Bitter  Sweet;  Common  Errors, 
&c. 

Vol.  IX.,  X.,  XL,  and  XII.  The 
Ladv  of  the  Manor. 

VoLXIILThe  Mail-Coach ;  My 
Three  Uncles  ;  The  Old  Lady's  Com- 
plaint; The  Shepherd's  Fountain; 
The  Hours  of  Infancy ;  Economy  ; 
Old  'ihings  and  New  Things;  The 
Swiss  Cottage;  The  Infant's  Grave ; 
The  Father's  Eye  ;  Dudley  Castle  ; 
The  Blrssed  Family ;  Caroline  Mor- 
daunt,  iS'c. 

Vol.  XIV.  The  Monk  of  Ciinies ; 
The  Rosary,  or  Rosee  of  Montreux ; 
The  Roman  Baths;  Saint  Hospice; 
The  Violet  Loaf;  The  Convent  of  St. 
Clair. 

Vol.  XV.  1  .le  History  of  Henry 
Milncr,  Part  IV. ;  Sabbaths  on  tho 
Continent ;  The  Idler. 

Vol.  XV L  John  Marten. 
SINCLAIR'S  (Miss)  Sir  Edward  Graham...  1  00 

SMITH'S  (Horace)  Adam  Brown 50 

Arthur  Arundel '. 50 

I.iOve  and  Mesmerism 75 

SMOLLETT'S  ilnmphrey  Clinker 12mo  1  50 

SPINDLER'S  The  Jew,*. 75 

STANDISH  the  Puritan 12mo  1  50 

STEELE'S  So  Runs  the  World  Away 50 

ST.  OLAVES '. 76 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  6f  Brothers. 


I'BIOK 

STONE  Kil!,'o $    25 

SUK'S  Ariliiir 75 

CdiiiiimiKliir  of  Malta 50 

l)e  Itoliaii 50 

TALIKJT  S  Through  Kiro  and  Water.    Ill's.      25 

TALES  from  the  (iiTiiian 50 

TEl'I'T'S  The  Shoulder  Knot l-2mo  1  50 

TEMMES  Anna  llunimer 50 

THACKERAY  S  (Miss)  Conipltte  Works....  1  25 
Illustrations.     Cloth  1  75 

Old  Kensinu'ton.     lUustrutions 1  00 

Village  on  the  Cliff. 25 

Til ACKKl! AY'S  (W.  M.)  Novels. 

Vanity  Fair.    Illustrations 50 

Cloth  1  00 

Lilirnry  Edition,  3  vols  ,  Crown  8vo  7  60 

Pendennis.     Illustrations 75 

12nio  1  25 

2  vols.  8vo  Cloth  2  00 

The  Virginians.     Illiistralioiis 75 

Cloth  1  25 

The  Newconies.     Illustrations 75 

Cloth  1  25 

The  Adventures  of  Philip.  Illustrations.  50 

Cloth  1  00 
Henrj'  Esmond  and  Level  ilie  'Widower. 

llhistraiions 75 

Denis  Duval.     Illustrations 50 

(jrcat  Ho^'gaity  Diamond 25 

THOMAS'S  (Miss  Annie)  Called  to  Account.  50 

A  Passion  in  Tatters 75 

Denis  Donne 50 

Ealse  Colors  50 

"  'He  Cometh  Not,'  She  Said" 50 

Slau'l  ISIoh^in 25 

On  (luard 50 

Only  Herself 50 

Played  Out 75 

Playing  for  High  Stakes,     illustrations  25 

The  Dower  House 50 

Thco  Leigh 50 

The  Two  Widows 50 

Walter  (ioring 75 

(Miss  Martha  M.)  Life's  Lesson....  12ino  1  50 

THOMPSONS  (Mrs.)  Lady  of  Milan 75 

THICK'S  The  Elves 50 

TOM  Brown's  School  Days.    Hy  An  Old  Hoy. 

Illustrated ." '. 50 

TOM  Brown  at  0.\ford.      Illustrations 75 

The  two  in  One  Volume  1  50 

TUOLLOPE'S  (Anthony)  The  Helton  Estate  50 

The  Bertrams 12mo  1  50 

Brown,  Jones,  and   Kobiiison 50 

Can  Y'ou  I'orgive  Her? 1  .'lO 

Cloth  2  00 

Castle  Richmond 12ino  1  50 

Claveriiigs.     illustrations 50 

Cloth  1  00 

Doctor  Thome I'inio  1  50 

Fraiidey  i'tirs(mage.    Illustrations., 12mo  1  75 

Harry   Heitli'Mite   of  Caiigoil 25 

He  Knew  He  was  Right 1  (0 

Cloth  1  ,50 

Tlie  (lolden  Lion  of  Granpero.     Ill's...  75 

Cloth  1  25 

Ladv  Anna 60 


TROLLOI'E'S  (Anthony)  Lost  Chronicle  of 

Uarict $1  ,50 

Cloth  2  on 

Miss  Mackenzie .^id 

Phineas  I'lun 1  25 

Cloth  1  7ft 

rhincas  Redux 1  2'i 

Cloth  1  76 

The  Eustace  Diamonds 1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

Ork-y  Farm.     Illustrations \M 

Cloth  2  00 

Rachel  Ray ."io 

Ralph  the  Heir,      illustrations 1  25 

Cloth  1  75 
Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Ilumblethwaitc. 

Engravings 50 

The  Small  House  at  Alliiigton.    Ill's....  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

The  Three  Clerks 12m'.o  1  50 

TheVicarof  Bullhanipton.  Illustrations.  1  25 

(loth  1  75 
The  Warden    and   Baichester  Towers. 

in  one  volume 75 

'i'lie  Way  we  i^ive  Now.     (/»  Press.) 

(Mis.)  i'etticoat  Government 50 

(i'.  A.)  Lindisfarn  Chase 1  .50 

Cloth  2  (10 

A  Siien 50 

Dnrnton  Abbey 60 

Di.Tinond  (hit  Diamond 12nio  1  25 

TUTOR'S  Ward,  The ,50 

TWO  I'iimilies,The p.'mo  1  50 

TYTLER'S  (Sarah)  The   Huguenot  Familv. 

121110  1  50 

UNDER  I'oot.     Illustrated ,50 

UNDER  the  Ban 1  'J5 

Cloth  1  75 

VERONICA ,00 

WARHUiiTONS  Darien 50 

lieginald  Hastings 50 

WARIil-N'S  Diary  of  a  Physician.. ...T  vols. 

lOmo,  Cloth  2  25 

Now  and  Then IJnio  1  25 

WARDS  Chatsworth .50 

De  Vere 12mo  1  .50 

WKALTH  and  Worth ]8iiio,  Cloth       75 

WHAT'S  to  be  Done? 18ino,  Cloth       75 

WHEAT  and  Tares 12mo  1  25 

WHICH  is   the  Heroine? 50 

WHITE  .Slave,  The 1  00 

I  WHITE'S  Circe hO 

I  WILKINSON'S  (Miss)  Hands  not  Hearts...       ,50 

i  WILLIAMS'S  The  Luttrells 50 

Wii,LS'S  Notice  to  (^uit .50 

The  Wife's   Evidi  nee .W 

WISE'S  Captain  Brand,     illustrations 1  .50 

Cloth  2  00 
WOOD'S  (Mrs.  Ilenrv)  Dancsbury  HoiK«e. 

l-.'ino  1  25 

WYOMING .50 

YATI'.S'S  iil.K'k  Sl.crp .50 

Kissing  the  Rod 75 

Land  at  Lust .50 

Wn  eked  in   Port .50 

Dr.  Wainwriglit's  Patient .50 

ZSCHOKKE'S  Veronica 50 


Harper's  Catalogue. 


The  attention  of  gentlemen,  in  town  or  country,  designing  to  form  Libraries 
or  enrii  ii  tiicir  Literary  Collections,  is  respectfully  invited  to  Harper's  Catalogue, 
which  will  be  found  to  comprise  a  large  proportion  of  the  standard  and  most  es- 
teemed works  in  English  and  Classical  Literature — comprkhendinc;  ovkr  thrke 
THOUSAND  VOLUMES — which  are  offered,  in  most  instances,  at  less  than  one-half 
the  cost  of  similar  productions  in  England. 

To  Librarians  and  others  connected  with  Colleges,  Schools,  &:c.,  who  may 
not  have  access  to  a  trustworthy  guide  in  forming  the  true  estimate  of  literary 
productions,  it  is  believed  this  Catalogue  will  prove  especially  valuable  for  refer- 
ence. 

To  prevent  disappointment,  it  is  suggested  that,  whenever  books  can  not  be 
obtained  through  any  bookseller  or  local  agent,  applications  with  rcmittanci 
shoukl  be  addressed  direct  to  Harper  &  Brothers,  which  will  recei\e  prompt  at- 
tention. 


Sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  Ten  Cents  in  postage  stamps. 


Address  HARPER   &   BROTHERS, 

Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


er- 


